120980
by aqwe
Summary: 12/09/80. Five shots ring out. John Lennon is dead. Two girls travel through time in attempt to alter the irrevocable.
1. The Rabbit Hole

Chapter 1: The Rabbit Hole

 **A/N:** **Attention: This story was on a previous account that I deleted. I substantiate that I am not stealing.**

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles, but the Beatles certainly own me. I also don't own 11/22/63 for the plot inspiration. **Under no intentions of profit for this work of fiction. I might sound like I'm talking about real people, but it is fiction, so please contact me if you feel it's necessary before reporting anything. Thank you.**

If you are adverse to big words and multifaceted plots, then don't bother reading this.

Enjoy! Review and we'll be groovin' up slowly.

* * *

12/09/80

Chapter One: The Rabbit Hole

You have to be a bastard to make it, and that's a fact. And the Beatles are the biggest bastards on earth.

-John Lennon

Cecilia's P.O.V.

I've always loved rock n' roll.

I loved it when I was small and did not understand music. I loved it when I was bigger and was determining my personal tastes. And now—now it is the cornerstone of my life.

I still practice classical piano every day. There is sheet music to decipher and theory terms to define but there is nothing like singing one of those songs. A simple chord and poetic lyric can transport me across the universe. A harmony can take me to an ethereal reality. Sometimes when I look outside into modern 2016 suburbia, I feel like I've been reincarnated into another body.

People think they understand my passion for music, but few understand my passion for rock. It is forever ingrained in their brains that I will be on Broadway singing "Think of Me" for the remainder of my days. Never has it occurred to them that I may want to go in an entirely opposite direction. The direction I'm talking about is whipping my hair and wearing makeup like David Bowie. Being a vocalist in a band—a writer and an instrumentalist singing cryptic, naughty songs. I want to make indelible and eminent music like "A Day in the Life" that gets banned for being truthful and not just slut-shaming.

Today I am participating in designing a music tribute to classic rock in the Verette Museum with select people from grades 7-12. As John Lennon said once to David Bowie, his music was "rock n' roll with lipstick on." Rock is more than just music, but stage art as well.

The Verette Museum is situated in the heart of downtown Daly, California. When you go inside its circular glass doors in its entrance, you are greeted with replicas of modern art. It has always been something impossible to wrap my head around but also majestic in an indescribable way. Inside, you can go downstairs to view ancient African art and clay pots. If you go up the spiral staircase, you'll see illustrious European and Western portraits and landscape paintings.

By the time August rolls around, you will see a classic rock and musical tribute in the corner of a downstairs wing. It is a hodgepodge of conglomerated pictures, concerts, and instruments—art you can touch, paintings, and drawings—displaying the founders of the music that is remembered throughout time. It is all created by students that symbolize the next generation. We are influenced by this music and its icons.

John Lennon and Ringo Starr had visited the Verette Museum in the mid-1970's for one of Yoko Ono's art shows. John apparently liked it here in Daly, where at the time it was big enough to be bustling with activity and diversification, but also small enough to protect its people in a cocoon.

The night after Yoko's art show, the people at Verette Museum and some security gathered in a room to play some music. It was enjoyable, filled with locals who had brought acoustic guitars. They played and sang with John as Ringo kept rhythm on a variety of random objects. For once, everything was normal and the two ex-Beatles were able to enjoy their music without pretensions. There were even rumors of having a Beatles reunion here. One of the art directors who had been in the room with John Lennon was in charge of the rock tribute art exhibit. Ray was retiring after 45 years of service at the Verette Museum and was welcome to leave a testament to the fact that he had been there.

I looked up and realized that everyone had left for lunch already. To either my detriment or benefit, I am quite the concentrated worker while performing painstaking tasks. For someone who hasn't taken art class in a few years, it took a lot of time to come up with ideas.

"That's good," said Adelaide. She was entering Freshman year in the fall, so she was quite little from my perspective. But in sitting next to her for the last week and watching her create some cool artwork, I noticed she knew what she was doing.

"Thanks," I replied. My stomach rumbled and I dumped a handful of my lunch into my mouth. A few crumbs spilled onto my acrylic music note. Within the note, there were pictures of famous rock musicians and peace symbols that represented the sixties.

"But it still needs work," she added. I wiped the crumbs off the music note and refrained from rolling my eyes and instead settled on a quizzical look.

"Then what can I do to make it better?" I asked, crossing my arms. She then proceeded to explain quite thoroughly how I could improve my artwork, which enabled my already disapproving scowl to deepen. Since I am a perfectionist, I prepared to forgo sitting outside by the water fountain for lunch and to finish it. With Ray for company, it wouldn't be too bad. I would just interrogate him for the thousandth time about the Beatles. Being harmless and old, it was easy to be comfortable around him.

"Where's Ray?" Adelaide asked, seeming to read my own thoughts. She didn't make a move to leave either.

We heard a shuffling noise and spotted Ray making his entrance into the room, holding an acoustic guitar that looked old but was in perfect condition. He struggled toward us, his weight falling on one leg. How had he acquired the limp?

"Ray, are you all right?" I asked him, rushing to take the guitar so he could sit down. He was wearing different clothes than he had on five minutes ago and had a strange aura about him. There were dark circles of debilitation under his eyes. Adelaide slid a chair across the floor so Ray could levitate his leg.

"Be careful with that," he said, pointing to the guitar in my hands. "John Lennon played it at the Ed Sullivan show in 1964."

"How—?"

"Look inside if you don't believe me." Sure enough, inside the guitar was a signature with the unmistakable handwriting. I balked.

"Let me see!" exclaimed Adelaide. I pulled it away from her and cradled it in my arms, stroking my newborn child. Of course, people can imitate handwriting—but there was just something about it that gave me the feeling John Lennon had touched it, and quite recently.

Ray ignored us and plowed on in a hoarse voice. "Can you girls imagine a world where John Lennon wasn't shot?"

"Yeah," I said. "It's one of those things where you can almost feel it wasn't supposed to happen. Like fate took a terribly wrong turn. The world would be innocent again."

"I bet a lot of other bad things wouldn't happen, either," noted Adelaide. "You know, like dominoes."

Ray nodded. "In other words, the world would be much happier. People today—would you say they are happy?"

"No, but I doubt it's because John Lennon was assassinated," I replied.

"But it doesn't help," Adelaide retorted. Ray nodded with her and I refrained from rolling my eyes again.

"Perhaps you'll both understand more later. For now, do you mind coming with me for a few minutes? I want to show you the auditorium." I jumped up, the guitar banging a bit against the floor. Adelaide let out a slight shriek but Ray seemed to pretend not to notice. Instead, he looked us over as if judging our appearances.

"Cecilia, pull your shorts down." Adelaide laughed into her hand and heat rose in my cheeks.

"I … can't. They're high-rise."

Ray shook his head. "Well, I suppose it'll do. You won't be staying for long." I shared a questioning look with Adelaide, who shrugged indifferently. We followed Ray into the auditorium. It was small room with a Spartan stage with a decorative wreath set against the backdrop. One might think it was unattractive, but I like how it left everything to the imagination. That's how everyone should perform.

Ray showed us into the wings so we could enter the stage. He took his time going up and started shuffling around backstage. I brought John's guitar to center stage. Not knowing even one chord, I strummed all five strings. I sang with terrible counterpoint against the strumming, singing in a comfortable key for a medley of "Imagine," "Woman," "Oh My Love," and "Working Class Hero." My audience gave me a standing ovation. I could almost picture a specter of John standing next to me.

When I brought myself back to reality, Adelaide's claps filled the echo of the room. I bowed, my brunette hair brushing the stage floor.

"Girls, can you come backstage for a second? Cecilia, leave the guitar on the floor." He seemed to sense my hesitation. "Go ahead, leave it."

Adelaide and I made our way backstage. None of the lights were on, so we faced a pure, abysmal darkness. There is always a sense of magic in the quietness of a stage. Maybe it's anticipation or a strange sense of spirituality.

"Listen to me," said Ray attentively. I could only see an outline of his hunched form. I wasn't scared, but shuffled closer to Adelaide instinctively. Whatever he was about to tell us, it was serious.

"Don't stay long. Just enough to understand." He turned so he was behind us. "Now make your way towards stage left, but facing the curtains. There you go." There was a sense of idiocy as I inhaled dusty curtain. Adelaide was wading through it beside me. "Keep going," Ray called, his voice sounding not just muffled, but underwater. There was a moment of claustrophobic panic. It felt like the curtain was a veil between two parallel universes intersecting with each other.

"Just a few more steps." Ray was shouting but it was quiet to us.

This was the strangest situation I had been in, albeit I have had quite a dull life. Still—getting raped backstage by the Phantom of the Opera would have been more probable.

Then I reached past the other side of the curtains.

* * *

Now instead of dust, I smelled mold.

"Cecilia?" called Adelaide. I spotted her across the room. "Where the hell are we?"

"A basement, I think," I said before proceeding to scream. A small mouse skittered across the floor and upon seeing me, backtracked into a crevice in the wall.

"Church mice," murmured Adelaide. "We were on a stage, but now we're in a Church basement."

"Then let's get out of this literal hellhole," I said, heading up a dilapidated staircase. For someone of my small stature, the fact that it creaked with every step gave me some anxiety. When we reached the top, we emerged from the back of the Church. Vertically above us was where the bellhop resided.

"Let's try this way," Adelaide suggested. I followed her out into a doorway and we came out behind the altar. Churches are always adorned in a traditional fashion, so it was impossible to tell where and … when we were.

Adelaide and I froze when we heard a hoarse voice carry over across the pews. "Come, pray with me!" There was a haggard old man hunched over several lit candles before the steps leading to the altar. He looked like this was his asylum from the streets. "Pray for the unfortunate ones!"

I looked around but the Church appeared to be empty. Then I grasped Adelaide's arm and tore down the aisle and out the front doors.

It was a beautiful summer day outside. The birds were chirping and there was a hum of live music arising somewhere nearby. As we made our way down the marble stairs, we saw people strolling by. They held themselves differently—their shoulders were up and they were whistling.

The men wore suspenders or plaid if they weren't in suits. The women had skirts that were down to their calves and light summer shirts paired with nice shoes. The men's hair was styled short and combed to the side and the women's hair was short and bundled upwards.

I probably was supposed to feel out of place, but I had never felt more at home in my life. I ran up to a group of girls. Adelaide followed behind me wearily.

"What's the date today?" I asked them. The bolder ones glanced up and down at my legs that showed more skin than shorts, and then proceeded to my sleeveless shirt and hair flying about in the wind. Not to mention, I tanned during the summer. These girls were pallid.

"July 6," one said. Her voice came out in a clipped English accent. I opened my mouth again, but another one of the girls beat me to it.

"July 6, 1957." She looked at her clipped nails. I play the piano, but mine were long anyway and there was chipped nail polish all over them.

Adelaide turned a few different shades within a short span of time. "Thanks," I said, and took her to sit down.

"Put your head between your knees and take slow breaths," I told her. She did as I said. While she did so, I stood up and began pacing, wringing my hands in nervous anticipation. The distant music made me itch to get going. It was impossible for me not to fidget and people passing were beginning to stare. Whatever I was doing, I probably looked ridiculous.

"Okay, I'm good," Adelaide said. I bolted in the direction of the music. We passed through a garden of beautiful flowers that reminded me of the one my grandmother has. She had been married to my grandfather for around 2 years in 1957. My grandfather, who was alive now.

I ran faster, passing people surrounded by picnic tables and chatting nicely. There were a few that stared, but most were carefree and young. I looked back to make sure Adelaide had not lost sight of me. Adrenaline soaring through my body, I took in the smell of potato salad and hamburger buns.

Then I stopped (and peed my pants a little).

Adelaide halted next to me, her mouth dropped open. She looked like she needed to put her head between her knees again.

The Quarrymen were playing on the stage. Without taking her eyes off them, Adelaide picked up a pamphlet on the ground. It announced the GARDEN FETE at ST. PETER'S CHURCH FIELD. She looked up at John Lennon and looked back at the pamphlet several times.

"This is the day John Lennon meets Paul McCartney," Adelaide said. I took a few shallow breaths.

"Oh my God, they're playing 'Come And Go With Me'," I said.

"This isn't that song," said Adelaide.

"Yes, it is, he's making up the words," I whispered. And he was. John stood there, strumming a guitar, making up words that almost got lost in the wind. He was an amateur performer but his charisma was undeniable. He looked younger than most of the clips I had seen him in where he was dressed to the nines. Now he just looked like a normal young man.

It was clear that overall, the Quarrymen pretty much sucked musically. But who cares about that?

"Paul is somewhere in this audience watching him," Adelaide said.

"I can't stand it any longer," I whined, crying a bit like a Beatlemaniac. We made our way up to the small stage where several people stood and watched.

"Pull yourself together," Adelaide commanded when I started crying a bit. She looked me straight in the eyes and was pretty terrifying for someone who hadn't even started high school. "I know you care about your mascara. Now come on and dance."

And we did.

We danced right in front of John Lennon (and the rest of those Quarrymen).

My dancing moves are a bit flamboyant for 2016, so can you imagine in 1957 with high-rise shorts? People gawked at us but I didn't care one bit. When we made eye contact with the Quarrymen, my stomach soared. Because it was 1957, they probably thought we were drunk.

Everything went to shit when we started singing along. John perked up at my voice and he halted with his own vocals. If we were altering the past, oh well.

When he pulled us onstage, I knew that we were definitely altering the past. When we started dancing and singing into the microphone with John, it was completely changed. By the end of the last verse, it was obvious the Quarrymen were drunk and more than enjoying themselves.

It was over too soon. And when it was over, we both knew that we had to go back. Life is full of leaving perfect moments. As we prepared to say goodbye, John leaned over and whispered something in my ear that I could never repeat to my youthful friend Adelaide. I don't care who said it; I was quite repulsed. Soon I would learn that John had a knack for ruining these so-called "perfect moments."

I might be characterized as a bold person, but I am only characterized in this way in the year 1957. If I did this in 2016, I would shrivel up and die.

I gave John a hug, knowing that I probably wouldn't see him again. Whatever this was, I needed to remember that once he was alive and healthy. Then I gave him a peck near the corner of his mouth. Adelaide made an "ew" sound. But to me, it didn't mean anything sexual at all.

"Bye, John," we said, and hopped off the stage. I didn't turn back. To this day I still wonder what the Quarrymen thought in this particular universe as we ran away from them.

* * *

We fell onto our knees. Ray helped us up, even with his bad leg, and led us back to the art exhibit room.

"It's only two minutes past when you left," he informed us as we took our seats. "It's always two minutes past. And then when you go back, it starts all over. July 6, 1957."

"Why that day?" Adelaide asked.

Ray shrugged. "There must be a purpose. The universe wants John Lennon to live. It always starts fresh every time you go back."

I looked at the guitar, which was now propped against the table. "And you stayed until 1964?"

Ray nodded. "But I'm too old to stay until 1980. I can't get close enough to the Beatles. I'm an old man. But you girls—you girls can. You're young, pretty if I do say so myself, and artistic. You'll make them notice you because you're modern, but you're not cheap like some people nowadays. You're the perfect recipe for 1957.

"But please at least think about going back. I've prepared everything. I sought you out the first day. I have fake IDs and birth certificates. I also have monetary units and other supplies from 1957. You can rent an apartment and be foreign exchange students at the All Girl's School near the school Paul and George attended. I also have a notebook full of information I've collected.

"I know your heads must be reeling with information. Take your time making this decision. If you stay until 1980, Cecilia, you'll be 40 years old when you return. Your best bet now is to stay for a month and see if you like it. That I'm at least begging you."

We didn't need to say anything. Of course we would go for a month. It wasn't an obligation. It would be the time of our lives; independent in 1957. We could literally do whatever we wanted. Plus, you know … the Quarrymen.

"Who's the man in the Church?" asked Adelaide, interrupting my reverie.

Ray waved his hand. "He's just some homeless man. Don't be concerned with him." We all sat for a moment. My breathing became a little ragged as I tried to make sense of all this. The silence was soon broken by the sound of adolescents prattling towards the room.

"Just remember one thing," Ray commanded. "The past is obdurate. It does not like change. You must be careful."

"Then why would the universe want him to live?" I asked.

"I don't know. I could go back for twenty generations and still not know everything about this strange universe."

Ray's students entered the room and he stood up, greeting them with a smile.

Tonight was when the exhibit would be unveiled. The Verette Museum was in full and utter chaos. We snacked on cookies and punch that if the Beatles were here, would have been spiked. My lips and tongue were bright red and we had just taken a photoshoot for the newspaper. Ray took this opportunity to get away. I winded my way through the congregation of people to reach Adelaide.

"Think we're a bit overdressed for July 6, 1957?" I asked her in regard of our modest yet regal dresses and two-inch heels.

"Maybe for the day, but never the occasion," she winked.

"Promise me this," I said. The raucous noise in the background slowed to a crawl as we prepared ourselves for what would happen in a few minutes. "If one of us ever wants to go back, at any time, we both have to go back."

"Of course. I promise."

"And we have to stick together, no matter what. We have to be honest with each other." Adelaide nodded in assent and gave me a pinky-promise. It was a hell of a lot more reliable than a signature.

There was an audible gasp in the crowd and we turned to see the commotion. The exhibit had been unmasked to reveal our combined creation. Music blared from an antique battery-operated radio painted with peace signs. We were taken from Buddy Holly to Queen. The wall was filled with paintings and symbols representing the best generation to be alive.

It was time. We sneaked away to meet Ray in the auditorium.

* * *

Adelaide's P.O.V.

My stomach churned with anticipation as Cecilia and I strode down the large, empty hall silently, the only sounds being our heels clicking rhythmically against the floor and the faint roar of the music and people behind us.

We turned a corner, and it turned out we had subconsciously memorized the whole route to the auditorium, where Ray awaited us. I didn't even know if I wanted to do this-completely, at least. Of course I wanted to go back in time, travel across multiverses and space and time-oh, it was the sci-fi fan's dream. And really, a life where we could manipulate ourselves into the Beatles' arms? I felt my spine prickle a bit.

But I felt guilty. I was leaving so many people behind! I didn't even get a proper chance to say goodbye to anyone. Anxiously, I glanced at Cecilia, who was staring straight forward as we came upon the last stretch of hallway before the grand entrance to the Spartan inspired auditorium. I'm not sure why they made the doorway that large. The theatre wasn't even very big.

One thing that bothered me about Cecilia was that I sometimes had trouble reading her. I could read people, it was easy. Even subtle expressions gave away so much. Reading my mom was easy, and Ray, well, I could read him like a book. But something about Cecilia was different, and I couldn't put my finger on it.

"Girls!" Ray turned around from a front row seat. We clambered down the steps as he struggled a bit out of his chair. "I was getting a bit afraid you wouldn't show up." He smiled, leading us, yet again, backstage, to the black abyss of a portal through space and time. I twiddled my fingers a bit, grinning, my past qualms passing me, though they were sure to come back in some time.

He handed Cecilia and I two large knapsacks, stuffed subtly to the brim. "Yes, these won't stand out one bit," I murmured, taking the brightly colored cloth bag from him. I noticed Cecilia twitch, holding back another eye-roll. Neither she nor Ray ever seemed to enjoy my little quips. I frowned, pulling it onto my back.

"Are you ready, then?" Ray asked, staring at us with wide and hopeful eyes. I was mid-nod before Cecilia shouted out.

"Wait!" she cried. "…Sorry, I just want to take a last look around here." The older girl stepped out from backstage, around the corner and out of our sights. I turned back to Ray.

"Don't you want to take your last look of 2016 as well?"

I shook my head. "I'll get homesick." I murmured. "What's going to happen after we're gone? Will everyone think we're dead?"

Ray's expression dropped a little, making him look even more aged than he had before. "Well, time is a confusing thing," he muttered, scratching the back of his head. "Once you stay there for too long, once you've changed too much, when the past has been altered so much that the future of a reality you're currently in is too different from ours, you… You begin to be forgotten.

"Like I said, the past does not like change. And sometimes it likes to mess with your future if you've messed with it too much. Once you're lost, few remember you from your original reality," Ray said sadly. "Believe me, I've seen it happen."

Cecilia returned from the other side of the stage, smiling weakly. "I'm ready," she breathed.

I glanced behind me at the dark void that seemed to have no end. "What even is this?" I asked.

"A rip in the seam of space-time. I've been thinking this past little bit while you girls were deciding whether or not to agree to this 'task', if you may." He took a breath, leaning against the wall. "It must be a rip that leads to 1957, where a lot of futures branch out. You know, new realities. They're endless. Say, one where John falls off stage. One where they don't let Paul play for them. You could spend eternities thinking of new possibilities."

I stared at the floor, nervous, yet again. It was so easy for us to mess up. Even one thing we could do could end up with John getting killed anyways. I then swore to myself it didn't matter what happened. I would save John, even at the cost of my own life. Besides, we could come back any time we wanted.

"Good luck!" Ray shouted after us as we waded into the portal-or time-rip? I didn't know what to call it. "I'll never forget you two, I promise!" As it traveled across to me, the sound—phrase-felt like it carried weight. As if Ray had lost someone to this same way. I shivered, my hair being pushed into my face as we passed through the curtains, and appeared back in the church basement, the putrid, mouldy musk that wafted around the room reentering my nostrils. I scrunched up my nose. This place needed a good cleaning.

"Do you see the mouse yet?" I asked Cecilia.

"N-oh, there it is," she cut herself off as a squeaking little blur streaked across the floor, eerily alike how it had the first time we arrived here. "Alright. Let's get going."

"You don't want to miss the performance, I take it?" I grinned as we rushed up the steps, Cecilia pausing as the homeless man from before cried out again, hunched over the candles.

"Come, pray with me!" He exclaimed, the same toothless mouth crying out to the heavens. I felt a little guilty. "Pray for the unfortunate ones!" It was offsetting, how everything was repeating itself. But just as I thought of this, he began to approach us.

"God tells me you're not supposed to be here. Leave! Leave!"

I fingered one of the five pound notes Ray had given us as pocket change, staring at the man as Cecilia grabbed my arm again, just like before. He reminded me of someone. As she pulled me forward, I slipped the man the note, making a short moment of eye-contact with him before turning around and hurrying with Cecilia outside to where John and the rest of the Quarrymen were on their little makeshift stage, playing away to "Come and Go With Me," with John making up the words as he went, yet again. I really didn't like the repetitiveness of it all.

I scanned the crowd again, trying to catch a glimpse of Paul. Would he be my age? No, if I were fourteen right now, in 1957, he would be fifteen. I was George's age.

We pushed to the front of the stage again, Cecilia looking upon the band-especially John, with a sort of fondness and appreciation as she began to dance along to the music, urging me to join in. The group laughed, watching us hop around and shout. I still couldn't believe it was actually him. John Lennon. Right in front of me- us-cackling away an instrumental came on. This was it, this was our life now.

I suddenly bumped into a boy with dark hair and fair features, instantly recognizing him to be Paul McCartney. I felt my breath hitch in my throat and I jabbed Cecilia with my elbow. "Sorry!" He grinned. "Great band, yeah?"

I nodded. "Yes," I replied simply, too afraid I'd go on about how famous they'd be. I glanced at Cecilia, whose eyes had glossed over.

He leant over more, smiling wider. "Y'know, my friend Ivan here-" he nodded at Ivan Vaughan, the Quarrymen's replacement tea-chest bass player. "He's going ta' take me to talk to John."

Smiling, I gave him another little nod. "Isn't that… Gear?" I forced out the unfamiliar slang word, plastering a visibly uneasy grin on my face.

Paul shoved his hands in the pockets of his white jacket and turned back to the music, and so did I, as to avoid any more awkward altercations. "Did you hear that?" I asked Cecilia excitedly.

"Yeah!" she replied shakily, trying to balance dancing and talking to me. "Listen, we can tag along with Paul and then kiss-up to John-then we'll be in!"

We beamed to each other before returning to our out of place dancing and out of place appearances, as John Lennon himself looked down at us. I felt like a saint or something. Their performance finished and they began hopping off their stage, most of them toting their instruments except for Colin Hanton, the drummer, of course.

"You birds were pretty wild back there," John grinned, walking over to us, his eyes darting all over Cecilia. I furrowed my eyebrows a little bit was it jealousy? Disgust? I didn't know. "How come I've never seen you two around?" He slung his guitar over his back, leaning against a wall.

Cecilia froze, so I stepped over, forcing a smile. "We don't listen to skiffle too often."

"Is that so?" he laughed. "Well then, did you like it?"

She nodded profusely. "You've got a great voice," Cecilia gushed.

John's lips twitched, revealing a much sincerer smile. But he still seemed like he was preparing to reel her in.

"We've got some time before we perform again. Y' fancy sitting around with us for a while?" John asked.

"So you're from America?" Colin asked us, sipping his glass of water. They were in the middle of re-setting up for the second half of their gig, playing for the "Grand Dance" of the fete, where they would alternate with the George Edwards band.

Cecilia and I nodded, letting them make up their own stories about where we had come from themselves.

"For what?" John asked bluntly, clutching onto a bottle of beer.

"Foreign exchange students." Cecilia answered too quickly.

There was a short silence before Ivan Vaughan climbed up onto the stage, followed by Paul. "Hey!" Ivan grinned, clapping Eric Griffiths on the back. "Okay, well, erm, I'm just going to say this straight out. This is James-"

"Paul," Paul corrected him.

"Paul McCartney, and he's got some real talent. Trust me, John. Plus, he'd be a good replacement for me-" Ivan continued.

"But you're a replacement," John shot back.

"I've gotten a lot busier, with me mum and stuff, lots of things going on, Johnny. I can't be the fill-in anymore."

I could practically feel the tension. "Show me something, then, Pauline." John nodded at the younger boy, turning away from Ivan.

Pete Shotton snickered at "Pauline," but the rest of the band was silent-including Cecilia and I-as Paul gave them a small glare before motioning for John to give him his guitar.

"First of all," Paul began, slinging the strap over his shoulder. "You've got it tuned all wrong."

John laughed. "You're trying to tell me I tune me own guitar wrong?" Ivan stayed straight-faced, and I noticed both Cecilia and I were both trembling a little bit as we sat on one of their measly amps. This was it: John and Paul's first altercation.

"Yes," he replied, holding it up. "You've got it like a banjo." He plucked a few strings. "In, ah, G!" Paul grinned sheepishly at John. "Want me to tune 'em?"

John and the other guitarist, Eric, exchanged a glance. Eric began handing his over before John quickly spoke. "We like it this way. Go on, play something. We don't need a kid to tune our instruments," he replied a bit spitefully. Eric's arm retracted immediately.

Paul glanced sideways at John, doing a fine job at keeping his cool attitude as he sat down in front of one of the members of the George Edwards band's pianos. Cecilia and I looked at each other, silently agreeing not to say anything. This was a key event, and we couldn't mess it up. So we stayed quiet.

He began playing "Twenty Flight Rock" by Eddie Cochran, then continued on to Gene Vincent's "Be-Bop-A-Lula," and finished with a medley of songs by Little Richard, where John was leaning over him the whole time, watching carefully before tapping in a few high notes near the end. The rest of us were completely silent, watching the intimate moment-which to me, and probably Cecilia as well, looked like two brothers. I noticed John mouthing along to "Twenty Flight Rock" nearly right away.

After he finished, Paul spun around on the bench, grinning at Ivan before up at John. "Y' want me to fix up your guitars now?"

John stared down at him, and I could tell Eric was holding his breath. "I s'pose it wouldn't hurt," he finally admitted, and Griffiths let out a long sigh, grinning.

Paul had them tuned up in minutes, and he handed John his guitar back. I stared at the exchange. I couldn't see Paul's face, but I saw something light up in John that hadn't been there before. This was what destiny truly was. "You're alright," John told Paul.

I felt Cecilia squirm a little beside me. She was just as excited and anxious as I was. "We're actually seeing it," she whispered quickly. "We're seeing history and they don't even know that they're going to end up as international rock stars."

I was glad I had a confidant in this extraordinary situation. If I was ever missing home, or missing the technology, or anything, I figured I could talk to Cecilia. "Do you think we should ever tell them?" I asked her quietly.

She spaced out again as Paul played a riff on the spot. I didn't blame her. "Er, tell them what?"

"We're not from here. Y'know. 2016," I replied.

Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and she pursed her lips together as I noticed she often did while thinking. "Maybe once we get to know them better," Cecilia answered slowly. "Once they're famous?"

"If we even keep in touch with them," I muttered spitefully.

"The moment we lose touch," Cecilia reminded me, "or we do something wrong, we go back to 2016 and try again."

I glanced at my feet. "Right."

She nudged my shoulder lightly, offering a comforting smile. "We'll do fine," she reassured me, and I could only hope. If only we knew our own futures. I found it haunting. I found it eerie, how something I had read, seen pictures of, and heard recounts of it, was suddenly happening right in front of me. So many things could've gone wrong. Thankfully, they didn't, but our presence alone changed so much. Hopefully one of the things we'd change was John Lennon's assassination in 1980.

That was another creepy thing. The young man–if that's what I should call him–standing only a meter or two away from me, had been dead all my life. But now, here he was, living, breathing, young, and reckless. A reckless teenager. He didn't know what he would become. None of them did. I felt somewhat powerful. I didn't know if Cecilia did, but the fact that I knew and could manipulate so many people's futures was a little empowering.

"Aye," John nodded at us. Our heads both shot up.

"Yes, John?" we asked in unison by accident.

"You birds fancy going to the pub with us this weekend to see our next gig?" He raised an eyebrow. "And before your little virgin minds think of it, don't worry. We can lie about our age. The blokes that run the place are imbeciles."

A pub? I was fourteen, and not about to start a life as a heavy drinker quite yet. A little devilish thought popped up in the back of my head, though, whispering the things my subconscious knew to be true. Yes, I wanted to try it. I've always wanted to try a tiny bit of hard alcohol, just to feel that burn down your throat I've read about so many times.

That was the sort of temptation I shouldn't give in to. But still, Paul was going to the pub with them, and he wasn't even a year older than me. I might as well go, and tell John I was fifteen or sixteen.

"What time?" Cecilia tried to ask casually but her voice was pinched.

"Eleven at the Cavern Club. Ye both better stuff ye's bras if ye want to convince 'em properly." He looked down.

I snorted but Cecilia looked like she wanted to hit him. I was worried she might ruin our chance. "You really are a filthy bas—"

Paul interrupted thankfully. "You should go, anyway. You're both pretty birds. I heard you singin' well too, Miss Cecilia." He batted his eyelashes better than she did.

"Well, I can't resist that," she cackled. I sighed in relief. I suppose she would be hypnotized by someone different than I thought.

John, meanwhile, looked pissed. "Well!" I said suddenly. Cecilia glared at me. "Our… our host family set a curfew for us, and we'd rather not get kicked out in our first few days of being here."

She smiled widely, looking a tad forced. "So we're going to get home before that happens."

"Let me know if you need help sneakin' out tomorrow," John winked at us. I rolled my eyes and hopped off the stage, Cecilia in tow.

I stopped as I found Paul loitering around nearby. "Nice job back there," I complimented him.

He grinned, brushing some hair out of his face. "Ta. And–-I never caught your name, did I?"

"Adelaide," I told him. "Just call me Ad, though." We shook hands. He held it for a second, staring at me.

"I'll see you around?"

I nodded before rushing off with Cecilia to find an apartment or a house, just something for rent.

We went around Liverpool, picking up a few newspapers to try to find any openings for rent within the print. Cecilia wanted to find something near Menlove, where John lived with his aunt Mimi. I doubted we would.

Eventually, after a few hours, we came across a beautiful, two bedroom, spacious house on Milton Road. It was perfect. And a little frightening. I'd never lived on my own before. Neither had Cecilia. We counted our money-we had plenty for rent-Ray had given us probably enough to last us 10 years, even if we didn't work.

We then realized we'd need to furnish this damn place. And buy food. And clothes. And other teenage girl necessities. And pay taxes. That meant jobs. There seemed to be a lot of work ahead of us, but we finally realized where we were, and that our mission to save John Lennon had just started.


	2. The Cavern Club

"Mother, you had me, but I never had you."

-John Lennon

Cecilia's P.O.V.

Adelaide held up the newspaper to her face and read off the number. My hands were sweating and the telephone booth was claustrophobic in the summer heat. In America 2016, no young girl had the funds to support rent for an entire house, however precocious she was.

Remember there were no answering machines until at least 20 years from now, I was relieved when a man picked up on the third ring.

"Hello, I'm interested in buying—erhm, renting the house on Milton Road." Why must I sound like a toddler over the telephone?

There was some shuffling in the background. "Can I get your name, please?"

"Cecilia—" Adelaide gestured to the fake ID sporting a fake last name—"Cecilia Potter."

"You sound a bit young, Cecilia. But I s'pose we could meet to get that all settled out."

I took a breath, trying to make my voice steady. "I'm studying abroad here with my cousin and our parents want us to have a better place to stay than a hotel. They're providing the funds, so money isn't a problem. When's the soonest we could meet?"

The man sighed. I still did not know his name. "Today's Sunday, so that's out. I s'pose we could meet at the –for tea at twelve Monday? If you're not some kids scamming me, I might offer you the keys if you offer me a deposit."

Twelve was a bit early, considering we would be out at all hours on a Sunday night (which, the more I thought about it, was a bit strange in 1958). But I agreed, satisfied with the outcome of the phone call. After hanging up, I informed Adelaide of our plans.

"'Studying abroad'?" she repeated after I had finished.

I shrugged. "It sounds more mature than the old foreign exchange student ploy. So, now we just need to find jobs and register for school next week."

"Why must we do either of those things? I thought we came here to have fun."

"We might actually be staying longer than a month, remember? Don't you want to leave the 'oh, shit' moments in 2016?"

Adelaide didn't respond so I was not sure if she was acquiescing or sulking. We emerged from the telephone booth and into Downtown Liverpool. We were still in our attire from the previous day so we would not be conspicuous, but we needed to update our wardrobes in case we ran into someone.

Today it was raining, which was not surprising for England. Sporting a tourist map we had acquired at the hotel, we waited at the bus stop that would take us to the ritzy part of the city that offered shops we could buy clothes and accessories at. I stood, enamored at the built cars rolling casually down the street, the people in their Sunday clothes, stopping to talk to one another even if they were strangers. Instead of feeling homesick, I felt like I had come home.

When we stepped into the bus and passed the driver a coin you might have found on the ground back in 2016, we found it was almost empty. Everyone was either in Church or at home for Sunday dinner. We could have 1957 all to ourselves. I watched the whizzing, drizzling rain whirl past us as the bus bounced down the street. Some Frank Sinatra tune was playing on the radio but I was thinking of the Beatles song.

"Adelaide, I think we should go to Church. I mean, it is Sunday."

Adelaide balked. "You've got to be kidding me right now."

"I'm not. We have to assimilate and do the proper thing."

Adelaide lowered her voice. "We just time traveled and you want to go to Church?"

The bus halted and the driver called out our stop. I elbowed her and laughed. "Come, pray with me!" Then I almost jumped down the stairs onto the street, almost forgetting I was wearing a dress.

We took off down the street at a fast pace, not caring that the rain was becoming a deluge onto our faces. The map was soaked but we knew where to go almost instinctively. We stopped in front of Robson's Clothing Shop. There were beautiful décolletage dresses in the window, each sporting brilliant colors and handmade. I tried the door but couldn't get it.

"Use your muscles!" Adelaide pushed me aside but it wouldn't open for her either. She nudged me but I was stock still, in front of the store hours.

"We're complete idiots. It's Sunday in 1957! Of course nothing is open!"

"What are we gonna do?" asked Adelaide. "We're soaked now and have no clothes for tonight!" She stopped and shook me. "There is makeup in the bag we helped Ray pack, right?"

I nodded. "I think I have an idea."

* * *

The outer city reminded me of my grandmother's house, but with fresher paint and younger faces. We strolled on the sidewalks, thankful that the rain had thinned to a sprinkle with a tint of sunlight streaking the sky. We could hear a few families chatting inside the house and about to sit down to dinner. We settled for a quiet house and walked into the backyard. There was a tire swing on one of the trees. I swung back and forth a while, feeling like a child again. The twenty-first century sure forces you to grow up faster.

"Okay, I don't think anyone's here," Adelaide confirmed after scouting the yard more.

We took for the clothesline. There were a few nicer skirts, blouses, and Levis hanging from them. They floated in the breeze as we tried them on over our own clothes. Back then, clothes were more proportional to a body and better made, so if they fit your butt, then they fit everything else, too.

We put the clothes that we didn't like or fit back onto the racks and took off with the rest over our shoulders and hanging over our arms. We erupted into laughter as soon as we were a block down the street.

"We really need Church now," said Adelaide.

"More like confession," I said. After stowing the clothes back in our room, we went to the bakery and had some English pastries and acquainted ourselves with the trite, cute baker's son. We went back to the hotel again, since there was nothing else to do, quizzing each other on Beatles trivia and other useless information.

Our hotel room was Spartan but homey. There were two single beds and a television set because we could afford first class. There were a few stations, but it was a pain to roll it and it made sizzling noises. There were only soap operas on and some news programs so we decided it would be easier to keep it off. There was a finished wooden floor and a communal bathroom in the upstairs hallway. There was a little mirror—not body-length, mind you—and a window without a shade.

Neither of us had ever been happier in our lives.

We went through the bag Ray had packed us. Most of it contained passports, birth certificates, money, sports and other bets until the year 1980 he had compiled, and of course, the notebook.

The notebook was more like an anthology of Beatles information. Anyone who had ever been associated with them, place or person, was also added into the encyclopedic compilation.

"You've got to understand what made them tick," Ray had told us one day. "Their psychological tendencies. You can't understand someone if you don't know anything about where they came from. That's why you're starting from the beginning—before the beginning."

There were chronological dates of countless gigs Ray had witnessed firsthand. He claimed he did not associate much with the Beatles but instead studied them like they were a removed experiment. By interacting with them, we would change some of what filled inside the book, but not the dates.

Dinner was served promptly at 6. We learned that the mistress's son attended the same school that Paul and George went to. Of course, we didn't mention we knew them because Paul hadn't told us yet. The boy's name was John, ironically.

We would encounter many other parallels in the past that were even more unsettling.

Dinner was extravagant, as it was an affair only an Italian would attempt in 2016. There was a pot roast, green beans, a salad, potatoes, homemade bread, and rice. I was surprised at how much of the vegetables I ate and how hungry I actually was from walking around all day. Is this how heavenly life is supposed to be? When I was finished, I was barely full but still satisfied.

Adelaide had a starry look on her face. The mistress questioned if she was all right.

"We don't eat like this in America," I informed her. It was partly true.

The woman's hands flew up in the air. "And I was worried you'd think I burnt the roast!"

"What else do they not have in America that they don't have here?" the mistress's husband asked.

"Class," Adelaide said with a strange gesture. I kicked her under the table.

After we had some fruit tart, all the guests offered to help with cleaning up the dishes. Naturally, Adelaide and I followed suit. We both dried.

Dinner turned out to be a two-hour affair. We had planned on going upstairs and playing the transistor radio in our room, but that was such a 2016 thing to do (minus the radio). Instead, we filed into the lounge and sat and …

I cannot believe I'm saying this.

We sat and talked.

The men read the newspaper and the women talked about whatever struck their fancy. Adelaide talked with the John boy, who was more her age, about school. The radio was on the classical station in the background. I eyed the piano. Every house had a piano in 1957.

I sat down and played some of the pieces I had memorized: Fantasia in D Minor by Mozart and the eminent Nocturne in E flat major by Chopin. It was no Beatles, but it was something.

The mistress looked close to crying. "I told you you should have continued with your lessons, John! You don't even play 'Heart and Soul' anymore!"

The boy shrugged. Some things never change.

Eventually, the clients dissipated and went back to their rooms. We followed, getting dressed in our skirts and blouses. I settled on a black one reminding me of one I had in 2016. It didn't hug me as much, unfortunately.

Adelaide was complaining the entire time she had to put pantyhose on. However, I was used to wearing them and liked the way they looked. And in 1957, I could wear them any time I damn wanted.

"I've been in the same heels for two days straight. I think I'll get bunions soon," Adelaide complained.

"We'll go on a shopping spree tomorrow," I said. "And lucky for you, no one actually follows child labor laws yet, so you can pay for your own clothes once you get your job!"

Adelaide scowled at me. "Why can't we just use the sports book?"

"That's for emergencies. I don't feel right betting on something in spurts. It's better to be on the record with a continuous income."

"How come you have to be so damn responsible?"

"Because, because the world is round," I started singing.

Adelaide shushed me. "What if they hear you?"

"I'll just tell them it's Beethoven backwards. I wouldn't be lying."

By the time we applied our makeup and neutralized our burns from the iron used for straightening hair, it was only 9 o'clock.

"Time for a nap," I announced, falling back onto my bed.

"What are you, five?"

"We're going to the club at eleven! Think of how late it'll be once we get back! You know what, don't. I don't want to think about it."

Adelaide sighed. "We're going to be spending our time with the Quarrymen."

I rolled over. "I don't want to think about that either. It makes me all clammy."

"What if one of them cops a move on us?" asked Adelaide. "I mean, how could you ever say no?"

"It's an arrogant thought to assume they would." I got up from the bed and looked at our reflections in the tiny mirror. "But I mean, just look at us."

"What did girls do before selfies?" Adelaide asked.

"I don't want to know. Let's take one." Our phones were about to die, but we each took one selfie to commemorate the moment. We then stuffed our phones in the bottom of Ray's bag. I wondered if I would miss it. If no one knew better and found the picture in 2016, we could have been vintage girls for Halloween.

* * *

We managed to find the outside of the club without getting mugged or raped. It was a good night so far. There was a longer line than either of us expected considering the hour and day of the week. Among the most unorthodox folk of 1957, we felt out of place. We were getting anxious by the moment. Wasn't one of the boys supposed to meet us? Did John completely forget? By the time we reached the front of the line, I already was molested by mosquitoes.

"Go ahead," the bouncer said. I sighed in relief. Adelaide walked through but then he slammed his arm down. "What makes you think you can go in, little girl?"

Adelaide covered up her mouth to refrain from snorting.

"Um, because I'm old enough." I was only a year younger than the legal age to drink, and I just had to get inside.

Adelaide disappeared and I cursed under my breath. Should I have stuffed my bra like John said? No, that would have been ridiculous. Adelaide got in, and she was barely 14….

"Get out of the line! People are waitin'!"

"But, I'm, I'm waiting for someone—"

An arm settled around my shoulder and I jumped. John Lennon had his arm around my shoulder.

"Be a pal, Ror, and let 'er in," he said. I shrunk back at the smell of alcohol on his breath. Wikipedia wasn't kidding. "She's come to see our gig."

Ror, or Rory, or whatever the hell his name was, waved us in. I shrugged John's arm off my shoulder, irritated with everything. I moved towards Adelaide.

"It smells like cigs," I mumbled, choking on the air.

John blew smoke right into my face. I felt my singer's lungs dying slowly. "No shit, darlin'."

"Well, we're in," said Adelaide, wringing her hands. I was concerned for her mind in this dingy environment. "What now?"

"Adelaide!" Paul called. "Cecilia!" he said a few seconds later. I smiled tightly. Paul nodded to John, who seemed blasé as he took another drag of his cigarette. Paul lit a match. I had to bite my tongue to prevent myself from reminding them that they were killing themselves.

"We've gotta get ready," John said. "Come to the back with us?" he asked, staring at Paul the whole time. It seems like someone wanted to show off. They were the Quarrymen; they never got "ready" or "warmed up" for any gig of theirs.

We followed John to the cramped backstage, where the walls were stained and the lighting was dimmed. "I smell lady perfume," said a voice. "Put the bottles away." There was some shuffling and broken glass. I tried to stifle a snort.

We (meaning it was all for Paul) were introduced to Eric Griffiths, John's fellow guitar player. He was drunk off his ass but seemed decent enough. Colin Hanton's voice was the one who wanted them to put away the beer. He had a nice smile and was dressed in softer leather than the rest of them. Pete Shotton was the best looking but tied with John as most incorrigible. He was quiet, but I had a feeling it was because he was trying to figure out what the two "ladies" were doing here and how susceptible we were to the charms of the rest of them.

John tried to get the non-sober band together for a warm-up song. Instead of watching, Paul, Adelaide, and I went into the corner. Paul had brought his guitar and started tuning it. I almost squealed when he asked us to sing something with him. He mentioned a few English songs we didn't know and then settled on something more popular.

"How 'bout 'Hound Dog'?" We nodded.

Paul began with a bluesy version of "Hound Dog." Adelaide and I both sang with him. Paul's voice was so clear at this point. For the first time since I could remember, I even hung back a little so that I could enjoy his sound. I danced around a bit and he missed a few chords as he laughed.

There was empty applause when the song finished. Adelaide paled and I looked back to see John. He did not look amused.

"Looks like we've got a new band in the house," he said drily.

"We better let you get ready," Paul replied, standing up. Adelaide and I sensed an awkward tension emitting from John and then bouncing off of Paul, who didn't seem to be bothered. "Nice seeing you and good luck."

"What was that all about?" I whispered to Adelaide as we headed back into the bar.

"He was watching you the whole time. You and Paul."

"I got that," I snapped.

"He seemed to like it a lot, but then—"

Paul put his arm on Adelaide's. She stared at it with an ambivalent expression. "Can I get you two anything?" I gave her a look telling her no.

"Sure, beer's fine," she said. I clenched my fists.

"I'll have water with lemon," I said primly. Paul didn't seem fazed.

"I'll be back in a few minutes. You birds all right here?" he asked.

I smiled; wow, his face was even more perfect in real life. "Just dandy."

As soon as Paul moved towards the table, I turned my full rage on Adelaide. "Alcohol? Really? One, that's just not smart. We just met them. And another, Paul is poor! He can't even afford water!"

"Water's free," said Adelaide, shrinking back from me a little.

"That's my exact point!" When I saw her horrified expression at my distaste in her decisions, I eased up my offensive stance. I leaned back. "So, why do you think John got so angry?"

"Easy. He felt threatened. Paul is good enough. Add you to the mix, and—well, he wants Paul for himself."

"I'm not gonna steal Paul from him," I sighed. "What is this, a McLennon love triangle?"

Adelaide laughed. "It's actually a compliment. Take advantage of it. Make sure you use it to make him fear and admire but not envy you."

"If I was as mature as you at 14—screw being a musician. I'd grow up to be fucking Plato."

"I didn't think you swore, Cecilia," Paul said, handing me water. I almost dropped it on him. "You're so proper and yet you use language."

"It's an American thing."

He nodded to Adelaide. "Go easy on that, then. I read somewhere that Americans don't hold beer well."

"We don't hold anything well," I countered.

Paul laughed. Paul McCartney laughed at me.

"Look!" Adelaide almost split her beer on herself. "They're on!"

There was no formal introduction of the Quarrymen. Instead, they just started playing. Eric almost tripped over the amp, which did not help an already shaky start. In the grittier atmosphere, John had a different interpretation of the songs he played. I didn't recognize their first number but Paul seemed to like it. He whooped for them a few times. John pretended not to hear, but one of his lips turned up in a smirk. Tonight, their guitars were tuned right.

The Quarrymen were not good. John's voice was gravelly and the drummer set a good beat, but that was about it. The other members of the band were not in tune and played sloppily—considering their drunkenness. Perhaps they sounded better when intoxicated. However, the only thing I would be getting drunk on would be water and Paul McCartney. Close enough.

We spun around, dancing, singing, and laughing. Adelaide and I kicked off our shoes and Paul loosened his tie. When he took our hands and spun us around like ring-a-round-the-rosy, I realized how much of a child he still was. How much we all were.

John spent a lot of time joking around with his bandmates. A lot of the audience laughed with them, ourselves included. I counted, my head wagging up and down in the haze: Paul was on his fifth beer.

"Time fer a num'er we didn' plan," said John. I was incredulous at how open he was in drinking during his own performance. Stupefied at his choice of "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes," I watched as everyone gathered to find someone to slow dance with. At this point in the night, it was more of finding someone to help you stand up.

Paul grabbed Adelaide, managing to be somewhat graceful in spite of the beer. She seemed a bit uncomfortable and I laughed to myself, wondering how someone would have an issue dancing with Paul McCartney. As per usual, I was without someone to dance with, but it didn't bother me this time. How could it, when I was surrounded by the Quarrymen?

It was quite hazy with cigarette smoke, so I had to blink a few times when I spotted Pete Shotton abandoning his instrument to dance with me. It was rude for him not to ask, but he didn't. We were just there for a moment, swaying back and forth like the tire swing I had been on earlier.

When the song was over, I stepped back and looked at him with a quizzical expression. "Why were we dancing?" I asked, almost smiling.

"Because John didn't have the balls to do it," he replied, and jumped back onto the stage.

Just as I was taking this in, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to see a reddened, disheveled woman staring at me. "Is that your friend with Paul McCartney over there? Because she's trying to hold him up. He looks a bit peakish."

I looked to see Adelaide guiding Paul over to a barstool. He waved his hands as if to say he didn't need her assistance. She looked irritated. "Yes, thank you," I told the woman.

"You can come home with John, Paul," she told him as I inspected Paul beside Adelaide. "John tells me you're to become a member of the band soon." She didn't need to finish the rest of the explanation. "I'm Julia, his mother." She stuck out her hand like there was no difference between us.

Adelaide pushed her hand underneath my jaw so that it would close. Paul shook his head but then arose and nodded. Julia ordered him a coffee.

"I saw you both at the Quarrymen's gig yesterday," Julia told us. "I'd love to dance with you both sometime. You're both rather good." She swung her hips a bit. 1957 or not, she was one risqué mother.

"Yeah," said Adelaide, filling into the conversation while I watched from a distance. "That sounds like fun! Turn up the records to some good Elvis tune."

"No wonder why John's taken to you. He loves Elvis."

I hummed a bit of "Bohemian Rhapsody" underneath my breath: "Is this the real life, or is this fantasy?"

There was interspersed applause and we were broken from our reverie to see the Quarrymen take drunken bows. They shoved their instruments into their cases while Julia tried to make conversation with a mute drunk boy, a mentally broken girl, and a somewhat normal Adelaide.

"Want to bring your friends over for an after-party, John?" Julia asked when John and his group halted in front of us. He didn't seem to be embarrassed of his mother. On the contrary, he seemed enamored of her, as did his friends.

"Shure, why not?" John asked. He turned to me and Adelaide. "Think yer host fam'ly're miss you?"

"We just have to be back before morning," I transliterated to Julia. She nodded in understanding. She didn't even question our accents. I liked the way she seemed to live in the moment and accept everything.

Hauling Paul with us, we headed outside and to Julia's house. She had children and a husband at home, so I was relieved for them when everyone but John, Pete, Paul, Adelaide, and myself dispersed. When we got inside her house, she did not bother being quiet. She and John dropped Paul onto a cot and she offered him to holler if he needed anything. Then we headed into the kitchen. The grandfather clock on the wall read 2:12 a.m.

"Want some tea?" she asked us. Adelaide and I nodded. John took out his guitar again and began strumming a few chords. I nodded to him.

"A true musician plays after their performance," I told him. He looked up at me with an almost saddened glint in his eyes.

Pete and Adelaide were arguing about radio stations. "They only play the top 40. They're boring," said Pete. Adelaide, uneducated about 1957 radio stations in Liverpool, England, crossed her arms and huffed.

Julia handed me some tea. It was the perfect temperature and already prepared to drink. "Sugar's over there," she informed me with a tilt of her head. She knelt over John; it was the first motherly thing I had seen her do. "Which album do you want me to put on, Johnny?"

"Elvis," he answered without missing a beat.

I sat down on the couch and watched as they all got up to dance some more, refraining when Adelaide offered for me to join them. I sipped at my tea, stowing the perfect memory in my mind.

* * *

"I can't carry ya home, now, Cecilia—"

"Cecilia?" I asked, stretching. Then I remembered. "Just Lia's easier."

John moved back, surprised I awakened that quickly. "Yeah, whatever."

Adelaide handed me my heels to put on. I thanked Julia for letting us visit and apologized for falling asleep.

She waved her hand. "You're welcome to stay anytime." I figured this a bit odd, but then again, she was a bit liberal. Adelaide and John went to see Pete off, who had to get across town to get some sleep before his father woke him to work on his trade. Paul had ventured home in the middle of the night. It was almost seven now and I was almost concerned that I nonexistent host family would be angered if discovering we had been away all night.

Julia didn't fiddle around or anything. She just sat and watched while I put my heels on. When I glanced upwards to gaze into her eyes a moment, pure terror shot through me. Did she somehow know? Would she say something? No, that wasn't possible.

"Ready? I still gotta get back to Mimi's or she'll shoot me," said John. Instead of giving him a look, Julia laughed with him.

"Mimi's my crazy aunt," John explained to us on our way to the hotel. (We were going to cross that bridge when we came to it.)

"Why don't you live with your mother?" Adelaide asked. I rolled my eyes at her.

"Mimi took me away," John said. "I told you she was crazy."

Knowing it was just an act, I treaded carefully into the conversation. "I don't know much about crazy aunts, at least not to that degree, but I know about separated families. I haven't talked to my father directly in years."

John looked at me, a bit speechless.

"And me," Adelaide announced, "the scariest and most awful thing that happened to me was that I woke up one day and realized there was no chocolate in the house."

I laughed and suddenly stopped in front of a house. "Nice of you to walk us. Um, we can get home from here."

"You live here?" John let out some cigarette smoke. He appeared to be studying the house.

"No, but we're good," Adelaide said. "No need to be a gentleman, 'cause at heart you aren't one. See you!"

"Fine, then." He turned slightly and then looked at us. "We'll be at the - Diner for breakfast for dinner tomorrow at six, if you like jukebox music."

"Sounds like fun," I said. He moved in closer to us.

"If you want to meet at the stop, I'll teach you the proper way to ride a bus." He winked and strolled away.

"Were you out all night?" asked the John boy with a scowl as we walked into the hotel.

"And we had the time of our lives," I answered before slamming the door in his face.

Kicking off my heels and putting a pillow over my mouth, I sobbed quietly.

"You doing okay?" asked Adelaide, brushing through her hair. "Like, are you still sane?"

"What do you think the answer to that is going to be?"

She shrugged. "What's the current problem in Lia's world?"

"The other Lia. Julia. We can't let her die."

* * *

 **A/N:** You and I both made it through the second chapter. Because this is part fiction and nonfiction as well, I welcome corrections. Thanks to Silly Girl for our first review! :)

If you have questions, always ask. Otherwise, you'll be a glass onion to the interpretation of this hodgepodge.

 **Update: Thanks for the additional reviews! Too bad I had to delete them all to switch them to my other account. I will respond more in the next update. :)**


	3. Summer Nights

"Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans."

-John Lennon, "Beautiful Boy (Darling Boy)"

Adelaide's P.O.V.

Cecilia thought that preventing Julia's death is a good way to "test our hypothesis." (This scares me, considering she's terrible in science.) Ray said that the past pushes depending on how much the future will be changed. But what if saving Julia changes the future of not only John, but the Beatles? Even if it didn't, it would no doubt alter John's perception. Maybe we wouldn't have to stay until we were old—if Julia lived, John could, too.

Cecilia dismissed me. She was older, but it still stung.

"Your ego is getting the best of you. Sure, a few things might change. But the Beatles themselves or John's death? Fate is fate. Irrevocable, imminent…." She twirled her hair and her eyes were far away. It was late morning and the sun was beating down on the motel's porch. It had the fifties feel of yellow sunshine, leather chairs, and warm tile floors.

Cecilia turned the pages of Ray's notebook over as she lied on her stomach. I glanced about a few times in suspicion, as if someone might walk in and be able to see what we were up to. "Aliens, aliens from the future! Contain them!" they might say.

Cecilia broke me from my imagination. "Take a look. Ray did his research." I sidled over to her and began scanning the notebook. Details were jotted down everywhere, from anyone who had anything to do with Julia on that fateful day of July 15, 1958. Ray had underlined and bolded the names Nigel Walley and Eric Clauge so much that the next few pages had holes in them. Apparently, Nigel Walley had led Julia to the bus stop, where there were unused tracks. Then, Eric Clauge, a student driver of what they called a "constable" car or "Standard Vanguard" hit her.

Times of everything that had occurred from evening onwards were recorded. It seemed that Ray had stayed through until July 15, 1958 to observe firsthand—otherwise, the detail would be false.

Several arrows pointed to the end of the page, highlighting that Eric Clauge had delivered fan mail to Paul McCartney's house in 1964. Ray seemed to reach through time as one final note was added: _These parallels are not coincidental._ He had mentioned before that changing the past gave weird feedback into the future, almost like opposites attracting. If these strange happenings did that without changing anything, what would happen if we did?

"We have to avoid at least one of these things from happening," said Cecilia. "Ray wants us to weigh our options. We have to try everything. If one fails, we move on to the next."

"You mean," I said, "like stopping Eric Clauge from ever getting in that car?"

"Exactly."

"I think we'll need disguises, so no one sees us. Do ski masks exist yet?"

Cecilia laughed. "I think we'll make do, considering we have a year. But …," she paled, "what kinds of things do you think we're up against? Will the universe push against us or will people, or even ourselves?"

"Probably all three," I replied. "We'll have to be prepared to the extreme."

"We'll need weapons, which shouldn't be too hard to get in 1958. We'll also need to bring money with us, in case we need to bribe someone or something. We have a year to save up for this."

"Maybe someday we can meet Nigel and Eric, or scope them out."

"That's a great idea. If we know what makes them tick, it will work to our advantage."

I looked at my watch and panicked. "We have to meet the apartment guy in fifteen minutes."

Cecilia cursed. "I almost forgot." I was the one who had something to drink, and the girl was more sleep deprived and hungover than me. It turns out she might really need me after all, just when I was beginning to think she had all these adult responsibilities figured out.

The mistress begged us to stay for a yummy lunch of beef sandwiches, lemonade, and lemon squares, but we told her we had to leave. On our way there, Cecilia kept asking me how old she looked. "Seventy, at least." Her reaction was priceless. "By all laws of time travel, that's how old you are."

"Actually," she said, "I'm not even a fetus yet. Hell, neither is my mother."

Cecilia was terrible at reading maps or navigating anything, so I led the way to Moose Coffee, which was where who we called the "apartment man" told us we were meeting for tea. It was quite the dingy place and on the ghetto side of Liverpool. It was twelve on the dot when we arrived and the only man inside was dressed in raggedy clothes and had an unshaved face. This would look bad even in 2016. I gulped and wondered how Cecilia could be confident as she wobbled over in her heels.

She stuck her hand out. "How are you today, Mr…?"

"Pol is fine." I stifled a snort. Ray was right about the amusing coincidences. "You Cecilia Potter?" His Scot accent was thick.

"Yep, and this is my cousin that I'm studying abroad with." I didn't understand why she kept up her ritzy act because this man could care less.

"Adelaide Larson," I said.

Cecilia pulled out a chair and I followed suit. The waitress came over and Pol apologized that he couldn't afford to buy a tea for her. She ordered something for us politely and readied herself for questions, making sure her posture was straight and her legs were crossed smoothly underneath the table. I slouched and stretched. What did Pol care?

"How long are you staying for? I need to make sure I have a steady income."

Cecilia narrowed her eyes. "I see myself in that house at least a year from now." She was treating this like a job interview!

I shouldn't have laughed because it seemed to be working. "Good. It'll be 30 pounds a month, but I need a deposit now." I was a bit incensed by the price but Cecilia wasn't fazed when she reached into her pocket and pulled out some English bills. Her face gave me the first hint of anxiety when she handled the strange bills. Pol seemed impressed, however, when she handed it to him.

He scowled soon after. "How will I know you girls can pay up every month?"

"Our parents have a fund for us, of course," Cecilia lied. Still staring at the money, Pol seemed to buy it.

"Are you eighteen yet?"

"I will be in—"

"Never mind that. Sign here anyway."

"Is this illegal?" I whispered to them. Cecilia gave me a rude look as she scribbled on the folded paper.

"It's only illegal if they find out, which they won't," Pol informed us. "There's more things involved since you're under eighteen and can't provide signature, which neither of us have time for. You can't let anyone suspect there's not an adult living with you. Got it?"

We nodded.

"And don't tell any of your little boyfriends I'm sure you have either where you're staying. It won't look right to neighbors if they see boys coming and going but not parents. The law won't be the only thing you have it out with if that happens."

"Got it," Cecilia said, seeming to intend to keep that promise. Pol handed Cecilia the keys to the house. She shook hands with Pol's dirty one and we left without having a sip of tea.

* * *

Cecilia "treated" me to a light shopping spree later, since she seemed to imply that the money was hers. I bought some Levi jeans, a few frilly dress shirts, and some tee shirts. Everything fit better than 2016 clothes. 2016 jeans were all spandex and cotton and slid down your ass, but 1957 jeans fit everywhere. You couldn't breathe, but they still fit everywhere.

Cecilia did a 360 with her previous colorful and flowery style. She bought men's pleather pants, jeans, sweats, and some dark shirts. In her defense, she looked hot. I told her that it was a bit much to her face, though.

After shopping, we collected our scarce items from the motel and bid goodbye to the mistress. When we reached the beautiful house, Cecilia danced around the vacant space and sang a bit of "Hard Day's Night" as she ran from room to room. I followed, frowning. There was barely any furniture! Pol was such a dick.

"Be thankful there's a bed!" exclaimed Cecilia, one of the most negative people I know. "We can get furniture once I get a job."

"Not even chairs to go with the kitchen table?"

"You don't understand how fast money goes. I'll feel a lot better when we have a paycheck to balance out everything. In 1957, I might be able to get a decent job, too."

"Okay," I said. I understood that Cecilia wanted to be responsible, but I wanted to have fun! We were in 1957, for Pete Shotton's sake! Why couldn't we blow at least _some_ of the thousand English pounds Ray had given us? I needed to teach Cecilia how to have some fun.

Considering there was little furniture and we didn't have much to begin with, we got settled into the house quickly. We learned within a few hours that there was a nosy old lady as a next-door neighbor and that we were starving for dinner. Thank heavens we could stuff our faces full of pancakes and eggs at the diner John invited us to.

As the hour to meet the boys grew nearer, I grew more nervous. Cecilia was not helping; she was bouncing off the walls, and quite literally. As we primped ourselves (me in a black Tee with jeans while Cecilia put on her pleather pants so they would "take her seriously") she kept alternating between the riff of "Is this the real life?" in "Bohemian Rhapsody" and Every. Single. Beatles. Song.

"What if someone hears?" I asked her.

Cecilia panicked but ended up recovering quickly. "They will fall in love with my voice." She was so modest.

As we locked the door, I called "Bye, Mother!" loudly so the old lady sweeping her front step next door would hear. When she looked at our tuff outfits judgmentally, I gave her an enthusiastic wave.

The street was certainly busier than yesterday. It seemed everyone who was deprived of an evening stroll on Sunday was out today. This classier set of people was on their way to dinner or on their way home from work. I shrunk away from the stares they imposed on us when we boarded the bus and walked on the sidewalk. A few boys whistled at us while the older folks grumbled. No one looked at me like this in 2016 and it made me terrified. It had the opposite effect on Cecilia.

"I almost regret not dressing up," Cecilia said. "Look at how hawt those tuxes look on the guys!"

"Because you would wear a tux if you dressed up," I replied. She stuck her tongue out at me.

Ed's Easy Diner was crowded with muscly cars as well as men. It was like a British version of _Grease._ For a moment, I spotted a glimmer of anxiety in Cecilia's eyes as we walked up the steps in our tight clothes. I tapped her shoulder and tugged her arm so that she would halt.

"Look at everyone," I whispered. She turned and saw that people were indeed staring, and in good ways. Unlike me, these facts seemed to give her more confidence. I gave her an encouraging push. "It's 1957, and you have power over everyone here."

I had to run to keep up with her. Before we could even greet the boys, Cecilia was making a fool of herself. I sure hoped air guitar was invented already because she was miming one in front of the jukebox as "That'll Be the Day" played. Despite how ridiculous she looked, everyone started gathering around her and clapping while singing badly. I crossed my arms.

The song was over soon and everyone dispersed. I shrunk further into myself when the Quarrymen gathered around her, flirting and inviting her back to their table. Cecilia looked over at me, as if she felt bad that I had to depend on her. My pulse quickened when John Lennon settled his hand on my shoulder. He strutted over to Cecilia and I went closer as well.

"That was awful dancing," he said, "and your chord placement is terrible."

"Says the guy who frets his guitar like a ukulele!" she shrieked. Only I could tell that she was enjoying herself.

We walked over to the table and I scooted in at the end, watching the argument with a satisfying smirk.

"At least I can play. And that still doesn't change the fact that you can't dance."

"I thought your dancing was sexy," said Colin Hanton.

Cecilia beamed at him and then turned to John. "I play the piano instead. Want to imitate that for me?"

Before John could respond, a waitress dressed in an ugly uniform asked for our orders. Eric Griffth asked for beer even though we were at a diner but the rest of us ordered milkshakes. Pete turned to me and I let out a sigh of relief.

"You got a few pounds on you? I need some to gamble for our game."

"No," I said shortly.

Cecilia grew quiet across the table when the boys got out some cards and poker pieces. This was something she had no expertise in. I was decent at cards, which might gain some attention from a gambling girl in 1957. When Eric and Colin began explaining the game to Cecilia, her eyes glazed over. I wasn't sure from what.

"You gonna pass out some cards to me?" I asked John. He was the only one at the table I felt comfortable enough with, ironically.

"I don't know," said Eric, "would our little virgin's parents want her to gamble?"

"My parents are in America, and what they don't know won't hurt them." My parents were also in 2016, but never mind that. John threw me the remaining cards and they ended up bleeding. It was a terrible hand, anyway.

The waitress arrived with our milkshakes and our game began. It was clear that I knew what I was doing better than any of these silly boys. Even with my terrible hand, I knew how to navigate the game—they didn't suspect much from me to begin with. Pete was probably the best besides me because of his but analytical nature, Colin was a bit naïve, Eric had a short temper, John was reckless, and Cecilia was too interested in dousing her milkshake and staring at the good-looking boys from 1957.

We were quiet until the end of the game neared. I reached into my pocket and put a big mound of pounds onto betting certain cards. Eric laughed at me but Pete began to pale because he realized how much money he was about to lose. Cecilia jumped out of her seat, almost knocking over everything.

"You better win this, Adelaide, or I'll maim you!" You'd think I put twenty American dollars on the table or something.

I figured out every card all the boys had. They seemed a bit amazed and amused, even. When I reached to bring over all of Eric's money to my side of the table, his face grew red and his hand enclosed on my wrist.

"Get your hands off it, bitch," he said.

"Whoa, let go of her," Cecilia said sternly.

"I will when she gives me my money back. That bitch has no right to cheat!"

I felt an uncomfortable, hot sensation spread over my body, like I was about to break out in hives. "You can take your money," I whispered.

Eric threw my arms outwards, making me bounce into my seat and sending my milkshake all over my lap. Cecilia gasped. Pete took Eric by the collar. I felt shame spread faster than the milk dripped down the table and sides of my seat.

"Let's go cool off," Pete told Eric, and they disappeared.

Cecilia tried to look me in the eyes but I would not meet hers. "I'll take you to the bathroom and you can get cleaned up." Colin and John just stood there as she gripped my hand and took me to the woman's lavatory.

I burst into tears. "I want to go home."

Cecilia's eyes widened as she took a bunch of wetted paper towels and pressed them onto my pants. It felt sticky and disgusting.

"Eric is an asshole. You can't let one person ruin this, Adelaide."

"That was scary." I examined my wrists and saw that there were bruises. "This isn't the same for me as you, Lia. You fit in. But wherever I go, this isn't any better than 2016."

"This is bigger than Eric being a dick, isn't it?"

"I've never fit in right…. I've always been an outsider. You're all older than me and no one likes me. I must sound like a child, but that's the way it's always been for me."

"Me too," said Cecilia. I laughed at her. "It's true. I felt so much out of place in 2016. The only reason why I 'fit in' now is because of two reasons: The first is sex appeal. The second is that I know a lot about music and happen to have the same kind in common with them. If it wasn't for that, they'd treat me like scum. Everyone's sexist in 1957."

"Then what can I bring to the table? My flat chest and my tone-deafness?"

"You're precocious and have your own talents. You're just not as flamboyant. Wait a while. Wait for gentle boys like Paul and George."

I wiped my eyes and fanned out my legs. "I think I just, really, I don't know—"

"Romanticized the fifties?"

"Yes, that."

"Well, I'll tell you this. Summer won't last forever. It might be rough in some aspects but we've got to get the platform work done to continue in a better direction. If at the end of the summer you don't see anything promising about starting a new school and continuing on with Paul and John, then we can quit. But I think by then … it's everything or nothing."

As I was about to say something, a woman came out of a bathroom stall. Cecilia looked so pale I thought she might faint. The woman washed and dried her hands before leaving.

"That was either a long shit or a terrible time with a tampon," said Cecilia.

"Don't worry. We could've been talking about anything. I doubt she was even eavesdropping."

"You're right. That's just a sign we should be careful. Anyone could be watching…."

* * *

When we got back to the table, the now tight-lipped waitress handed us our check without asking if we wanted dinner. Cecilia was outraged.

"I'm sorry 'bout Eric," said Colin. "We're aware of how horrible he is."

"Cut 'im some slack," spat John. "He's had a hard childhood."

"I understand hard childhood," said Cecilia, "but he had no right to put his hands on her. If he has a problem, he should get help from a psychologist."

"Just leave it, Cecilia—" I started. But before I could say anything more, she went to go order pancakes right from the kitchen.

"Say, where do ya live?" asked John. "I might wanna stop by to see you sometime. Maybe you can help me with cards so I can beat ya next time."

He looked genuinely like he wanted to come and see not just Cecilia, but me too! I wrote the address down on a napkin. John snatched it up like it was gold and shoved it in his pocket. Just when I thought the action of the night was over, a few girls approached our table. They were in a trio and were dressed similarly to Cecilia. You wouldn't be able to tell the difference between them if you didn't know that Cecilia was actually innocent. John offered to light them up and they accepted. The three girls flirted with John and Colin for a few minutes, talking about gossip I was unfamiliar with: who was going with who, barbecues over the summer, and whether the rumors were true on certain items' virginity. Both boys had taken on a different façade than they had earlier. They must have counted me and Cecilia as equals—as in men. I wasn't sure if this was a good thing or not.

"And what's this cute button doing hanging with arses like you?" asked one of the girls with short hair.

"Her and her cousin is from America," Colin answered, making a smoke ring. "We met 'em at a gig a few nights ago. I expect you'll be attending the same school this fall. Her cousin is in your grade, I believe."

Two of the girls appeared giddy at the prospect of a new American friend. The one with short hair, however, raised an eyebrow curiously. John seemed attracted to her the most, so I watched her even more carefully. She was pretty in a tomboyish way, and would almost be beautiful if I couldn't see how tragic her eyes were inside. Have I said that I can read people well?

Cecilia was back. "Ready to go?" she asked. Her face was one of mixed emotions when she spotted the girls.

"What about your pancakes?"

"I'll enjoy them at home in the peace and quiet." She held up a bag.

"I hope we can see you both again," said Colin. "We've really enjoyed your company the last few days."

"You'll see us!" I exclaimed, smiling. "Won't they, Cecilia?"

"Yeah," she said, seeming distracted.

The girl with short hair got up and the other girls seemed to take this as an okay to associate with Cecilia. "I'm Val," she said, and they shook hands sternly. Cecilia was impressed by the formality and so I rolled my eyes. "This 'ere are Carmen and Shirley." They all smiled at each other.

"Where you goin' to school this year?" asked Val.

"Um, I believe it's a private school…." Cecilia couldn't remember the name.

"The terrible one with uniforms and all girls?" said Carmen. Cecilia nodded.

"That's where we're ashamed to go!" said Shirley.

"We'll see you there, then," Valerie said shortly. Cecilia nodded. It was the first time I had seen her be serious. I wondered what was going through her head.

We wished everyone good night on our way out and headed in separate directions. It was barely past eight and the streets were almost dead. Apparently the days ended after dusk in 1957. We rode back to our apartment in silence.

* * *

As soon as my head hit the pillow, I fell asleep. But with Cecilia, it was a different story.

"I miss my old bed," she said after waking me up without apologizing. She started to cry a little. "I miss home. I want to go home. We're going home tomorrow, okay? I can't do this anymore. I don't even know why we're here."

"We're here to stop Mark David Chapman," I whispered. It was one of those names you could only whisper and say after dark. "We're here to save Julia Lennon." We were also here to have a fun time with the Beatles, but that was supposed to be our bonus. "When you wake up tomorrow and you still want to go, we can." But I knew that when she woke up she might not even remember this conversation.

Cecilia was quiet for a moment and I relaxed, figuring she had finally fallen asleep. But just as I began to drift off, she reached above us and pulled the light on.

"Do you hear that?"

"No, go to sleep," I mumbled.

There was a noticeable banging noise that I couldn't pretend not to hear anymore.

Cecilia jumped out of bed. "Do we have any weapons? Remind me to buy a gun if we don't get shot or raped tonight."

"We don't have anything. It's probably just someone being obnoxious. Go to sleep."

Someone was pounding on the door. I got up, infuriated at my lack of sleep, and stomped over to the doorway.

"Stop, Adelaide! Don't stand near the door!"

But it wasn't 2016, or even 1980. It was just a person who needed something.

I unlatched and flung open the door. John Lennon and Colin Hanton stood there. Cecilia screamed.

"How do you know where we live?" she shouted.

"My good friend Adelaide told me," said John calmly. "Nice get-up." His eyes slid over her spandex work-out pants that were for men and T shirt that drooped over her shoulder. It was probably scandalous that she was showing a bra strap. Her face grew beet red and I wished she didn't care so much how she looked without makeup when she made up for it in so many other areas I didn't.

"I'm going to kill you," she said flatly. I wasn't sure whom she was talking about. My guess would have to be all of us.

"I had no idea about any of this," said Colin. "We just brought you a keyboard we stole—I mean borrowed—from—"

"Wait, what?" From my position, I could indeed see a bulky form between the two boys.

"I know it's hell not to practice," said John. Now he looked embarrassed. Colin began to carry it in. The keyboard looked a bit ghetto and barely fit through the door, but it was such a flattering thing to do.

Cecilia thanked them profusely and gave them a huge hug, which they both seemed to enjoy. I plugged in the keyboard and began playing "Jaws," which was the only thing that I knew on the piano. Cecilia then proceeded to show me up. John seemed terrified of her classical training.

"You know any chords, though?" he asked in the middle of a Haydn Sonata. For once, she didn't seem bothered. Instead, she smiled and sang him one of the songs she had written.

I turned to Colin. "I can say the alphabet backwards. How about you?"

"I once won a pie contest without knowing there was one."

We lounged around until almost 5 a.m., watching Cecilia and John tamper around on their instruments, since he brought his guitar everywhere. Sometimes they stopped playing to talk about certain songs and singers, each of them informing each other of new things and learning from each other. Most of all, they discussed where to insert these "chords" into songs and which sounded good in certain keys. Certain common phrases such as "minor," "seventh," and "sixth" where inserted and sounded pleasant to my ear as I dozed off with Colin on the kitchen table, since we had no furniture. The concept was so foreign, but it sounded so sweet to hear it from John's mouth and then how much love he put into playing them.

It turns out, Colin and I had some things in common. We both played football (soccer), had an older sibling that we rarely saw and weren't sure existed, and like to go for early morning runs. We told each other stories about our childhoods until the other would doze off from the music and then the other would continue. I told him about my drawings and sketches that I missed desperately and he told me that he liked to spray-paint the side of his school's building when he was angry, and so that was close enough to be considered an artist for him. As the night waned on, we took a pencil and drew comics underneath the table.

I was feeling homesick, so my comic was a caricature of my parents. I had almost forgotten about them. The bubble said, "We wait for you in Strawberry Fields." This made no sense because my parents were nowhere near 1957. I was exhausted.

In a parallel universe, the table on which the girl who time-traveled to save the Beatles doodled is sitting in a dump somewhere.

* * *

We said good-bye to them when the first rays of the sun shone through the kitchen window. Cecilia was in near tears.

"That's the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me," she said, hugging John. She looked like she was about to fall asleep and then drool on him.

I tugged her away before she could drunkenly embarrass herself. "She's not exaggerating."

John stuck his hands in his pocket. "It was a piece of junk anyway. It doesn't mean anything."

Colin opened the door. "Get some sleep, girls. I'm sure there's something else we'll have up our sleeves soon enough."

* * *

 **A/N: It was high time for an update! I hope you enjoyed this chapter from Adelaide. I welcome questions about anything under the sun and criticisms so this can improve. I plan on editing this more later, but I wanted to get another chapter written. I'm excited for the support this story has already gotten!**

 **Ask any character that has appeared thus far a question that I will answer in their P.O.V. in the next chapter. :) If you are a guest reviewer, I will also answer any questions you may have regarding the story this way.**

 **Happy Spring! :D**


	4. Bent-Backed Tulips

"It's getting hard to be someone but it all works out

It doesn't matter much to me."

-John Lennon and Paul McCartney, "Strawberry Fields Forever"

The reality of Liverpool, England in 1957 was beginning to sink in. Once we walked outside our own humble abode, it was evident that almost everyone was impoverished by today's standards and the boys who did not dress right were real gangsters. Adelaide did not seem to be comfortable with it, but I was in my element. All my life, I had grown up in suburbia Daly and yet I still felt more at home among these people. Ray seemed to make the impression that we would be different and not fit in but I believe he was wrong.

After we slept in until the afternoon, Adelaide and I brushed up on Beatles education. Ray had included, along with his own notes, firsthand accounts by the Beatles and also renowned biographies. He had underlined important portions and crossed out incorrect information within the thousands of pages in Bob Spitz's vast novel. Despite being an avid reader, I had not read the original Anthology yet. Adelaide and I took turns reading it aloud to each other, often stopping to take notes. Adelaide insisted on keeping our Beatles information inside the cramped attic. Because she is brilliant, we found somewhat intact furniture in it that we could use for the house.

Today I dressed in my nicest (and only) blouse and decided that I would not be one of the many poor folks in Liverpool. Adelaide and I hopped onto a bus and, after asking for directions, made our way to the library. I supposed there might be a job available there as a page or something similar. The pay might be terrible I knew that I could snap a job up, being educated in 2016. The "library" was more like a classical building, complete with marble and a dank smell.

When I walked inside, I found mostly men running the place, with the exception of an old lady as the page. When I asked if there were any applications or jobs available, the librarian sneered at me.

"No," he snapped. "Perhaps a young girl like you might want to find work at home?" Instead of punching him, I snagged one of Shakespeare's plays without checking it out.

"We've got a badass over here," said Adelaide when I showed it to her outside. "Knicking Shakespeare plays is a common pastime of teenagers in the 1950's."

I snatched _Antony and Cleopatra_ back. "You know what? I don't need your feedback. It isn't my fault you don't appreciate the value of English literature."

"Why don't we steal things instead of getting jobs? It's a lot easier back—well—now."

"We're not _stealing!_ I'm not giving up the job search now. We just need to find a place that actually hires women." We walked down the block, but the more we analyzed every business, the more we saw that they were all dictated by men. Adelaide was infuriated at the sexism but it just made me frustrated that it would be hard, if not harder than 2016 to find employment. I thought about my own ancestry, trying to remember if there were any comparable parallels between American women workers and businesses in England. Then I remembered—there were jobs that men would never want: Hospital work and banking.

I was the least scientific or mathematical person the planet, but working in these fields would enable me to get further and expand my horizons. They were stepping stones and I was more than capable of accomplishing work. I voiced my ideas to Adelaide, who seemed open to them.

"I like the bank idea. I can picture you handling money but not taking care of people."

"Glad to know that you understand where my priorities lie."

After inquiring for directions to a branch of Liverpool Bank and almost getting lost, we found ourselves in front of a building much grander than the small joints of Daly. It was almost dizzying and when there was no whiff of air-conditioning inside, I was sorely dehydrated and disappointed.

This bank was bustling with activity and everyone seemed to be professional and prompt. I stared with widened eyes at the people who didn't dare to dress in dowdy fashion and all the different facets inside one bank. I waited in line until reaching the front desk, where a nice young woman asked what assistance I needed.

"I was wondering if there were any jobs within this bank available."

"There are always jobs and never quite enough workers! I'll be happy to grab you an application if you will only wait a moment. Can I get your name?"

I hesitated, reddening. "Cecilia Potter." The woman walked to a table adjacent to the counter and pulled out a sheet of paper before handing it to me.

"Nice to meet you, Cecilia. I'm Lucy and hope to see you around here soon."

I smiled genuinely at the familiar name and started humming as I made my way over to an empty table where people were filling out checks. The application was simpler than those in 2016—they asked for basic information employers legally need to know, my experience (I had been in challenging math courses—that have nothing to do with banking but look good—and typing, but not with a typewriter).

"Who should I put down as a reference?" I asked.

"Put whoever you put down for your job in America. They won't bother calling out of the country."

"And if they do?" I asked, already inking it in.

"You're screwed."

I stared at her.

"Just kidding. You just make something up. I have faith in you."

"I'm glad somebody does," I said, walking back into the line to return the application to Lucy. After scanning it over, she told me to wait for a second. I took this as a good sign.

The manager of this particular sect in Liverpool Bank was an emaciated older man who was filled with harsh lines but seemed intent on finding good workers. He asked me a few questions and then told me to be at work at 10 a.m. tomorrow for preliminary training. I thanked him profusely and probably looked ridiculous.

"Good job," said Adelaide. "Let's hope they don't regret hiring you."

"I don't know what's gotten into you, but I'm so happy! In 2016, you have to pee in a cup and give blood before they hire you!"

Adelaide was horrified. "Now I'm sure we're not going back."

"So now that I'll have a paycheck, want to totally pig out at lunch?" Adelaide nodded and we both ate over the daily suggested amount of calories for lunch. But since no one worried about calories in 1957 because no one knew anything about them, we didn't either.

* * *

To Adelaide's chagrin, we decided to stop at the Liverpool Institute (for girls) in the afternoon to kill two birds with one stone. Ray had written on a notepad how to apply for schooling and insisted that we do it fast. He gave us bribery and proper navigation tools to get them to welcome us with open arms as American heroines.

We secured a spot in the office of the miserable guidance counselor whom was not happy to work during the summer. As per Ray's instructions, I informed her of our "background" as if we intended this to be a regular appointment we had gotten months ago.

"I'm Cecilia Potter and this is my cousin Adelaide Kelly. Our parents called from America a few months ago asking about the program and said they would enroll us before summer. We came to make sure—"

"I wasn't here a few months ago," said the guidance counselor, Miss Dexter. "Things might have gotten mixed up with the old counselor. I will look in the records for your names and call you back when we see something. May I get your telephone number?"

"Of course, Miss Dexter. But let me give you this first. Our parents were so glad that you could welcome us, _Americans,_ at your school that they planned on giving a donation. They didn't feel comfortable mailing it, though…." I tried subtly to pull out four hundred dollars (American) from my pocket. Mrs. Dexter stared at it with widened eyes and I shared a smirk with Adelaide. Ray was a genius.

"We'll be sure to notify your parents of this very kind donation to our school. Please, Cecilia, tell me what classes you'd like to enroll in. I don't have any records from your school in America."

We went through an on-running list of classes. There were two routes students chose: college or business. After Miss Dexter ran through the courses I had already taken, she established that I was on the college route. However, I had already taken all the terrible math classes they offered, so I was "forced" to take accounting. I bluntly informed her that I was finished with science. If I was a senior at my regular school in America, I would want to continue in language for college, but I discarded the idea when Miss Dexter informed me that three consecutive years were more than enough. I would take English Parliamentary and Advanced English. My electives were choir and band. Unfortunately, they did not offer music theory. I am unconfident that Miss Dexter even knew what it was.

After a few moments of contemplation, Adelaide decided to go with the business route. She got to surpass all of the courses that gave me suffering, tears, and likely PTSD. She decided to take Business Math I, Health as a science, English, World History, German I, and Drawing I as an elective.

"We will mail your schedules to you shortly," said Miss Dexter. "You may also take a tour at the end of summer. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

We shook our heads and thanked her for her time before dismissing ourselves from her office. The school was an old building and was reminiscent of a prison—it was gray and black everywhere.

We got outside and it was sweltering but I reveled in the heat instead of missing air-conditioning. It always made me freezing. "How do you like it?" Adelaide asked me. "I miss my old school already."

I turned around and looked at the school. "It's a miserable piece of shit. Still better than my old school, though."

"God, Cecilia, what school did you go to? A private one?"

"Maybe."

The boys' school was adjacent and the College of Art was connected to the Liverpool Institute for Girls. This would be were John attended. I wished we could have been in the same building as Paul McCartney and George Harrison, but ours was at least close. Besides, our being away might make them appreciate us more. Plus, the boys were never in school anyway. I would certainly look forward to ditching when there was no work to be made up and students could skip without getting caught.

Adelaide plopped herself down on a sweltering iron bench, seething in frustration. "Why don't you tell me more about yourself? I mean, it looks like we'll be together for a while."

"That's right, until we're forty."

"Well?"

I froze and then shrugged. "I'll tell you someday, if I ever feel like bringing the past—or future—up."

"Did something terrible happen to you?"

"No, but nothing good happened either."

* * *

I walked into the house and plopped my belongings onto the matted couch and stretched out my legs. My dark pants were soaked with perspiration from the walk from the bank and there was no air-conditioning sanctuary waiting for me at the house. Trying to get comfortable was therefore impossible, so I ended up just stripping and dousing myself with a bit of kitchen sink water.

"Hey," Adelaide greeted as she walked into the room, unfazed that my head was getting sprayed with water. "How was your third day of training?"

"Hot," I summarized. I usually loved the heat but it was not a reprieve after a long day of counting other people's money. "D'you think there's a pool around here?"

"I'm sure there is, but there's no way I'm going in with a bunch of children peeing everywhere."

I held my head in my hands. "Times like these are when I miss my giant pool in suburbia-Daly land." Then I pictured the Quarrymen, my own house, the Quarrymen, 1957, and the Quarrymen. "Not enough to go back, though."

Adelaide nodded. "Maybe after you get your first paycheck we can get fans."

"They don't do anything scientifically."

"Don't you want to be like those old-fashioned ladies who fan themselves on their porches?"

I snorted. "I didn't come to 1957 to be classy." I opened the refrigerator and began to peel an orange, reveling in its juice pouring down my hands. More than fanning or dousing myself in water, a good piece of fruit always cooled me off. I watched as Adelaide began to sketch out a diagram of the Quarrymen. While I had been working, she studied the intricacies of cause and effect of the complex history of the primitive Beatles and the people they interacted with. We were slowly beginning to obtain an archive similar to the ones on police shows—soon we might even have a bulletin board with arrows and the Beatles' faces on it.

"Adelaide, I'm getting major anxiety over the fact we haven't seen John in three days. He's made no contact—" I began.

"Miss him, do you?"

"We need to develop a relationship with them," I retorted, irritated. Must she take everything out of context? I did not miss being fourteen whatsoever. "We need to have influence so we can help. Do you think we're boring them?"

"I don't think we really _need_ to be so active in their lives to help them. But anyway, that doesn't matter because John stopped by earlier today anyway."

" _What!?_ " I shrieked, orange juice spurting from my mouth. "When were you going to tell me? What happened? What'd you do? What'd he say?"

"Slow down there, tiger," said Adelaide, putting down her pencil. "He came by asking if I wanted to see _The Tommy Steele Story_ , so I went with him."

"That's it?"

"Yep. The movie was good enough. You'd like it since it's a musical."

"Was it just John?" I asked.

"Yeah. If it makes you feel any better, he asked about you. He said, 'Where's that little shit who plays the piano?'"

"That makes me feel loads better," I said, but I was laughing.

"He doesn't seem too happy you're working at the bank. He seemed to think you were wasting your life away, even though it's not your career or anything."

I rolled my eyes. "He needs to learn to mind his own business. You'll have to tell me every juicy detail about your conversations later. Now I have to get ready for a barbecue. I ran into Val on the way home and she told me to come. It'll give me the chance to meet new school people and—get this—socialize. It's all a foreign concept to me, so thank God her, Carmen, and Shirley are picking me up."

"How come I'm not invited?" asked Adelaide, crossing her arms and adopting a pouting expression.

"I don't want to hear that from the girl who got to watch a movie with John Lennon. I'm honestly surprised he didn't try to grab your boob."

"I'm fourteen!"

I wiped my hands off on a dishtowel. "And my name is Cecilia Potter. Or is it? Whoops."

"Can't he just want to hang out with me because I'm…. Well, I know I'm not cool, but I'm kind of fun!"

I backtracked, concerned that everyone always misinterpreted my motives. "No, Adelaide, I never meant that. I'm just saying I'm a little surprised because of his character and how young you are. But you're really pretty and smart, and I guess age difference isn't as much of a problem back now." Even as I said it, I still was not utterly convinced myself. "I just want you to be careful, considering even I'm younger than everyone we're hanging around with."

Adelaide nodded but I could tell she did not comprehend the cautionary I was intending to mean well for her.

"I'm sorry you can't come to the barbecue. I won't feel right without you there."

"Why didn't they invite me, though?"

"Val said that it wasn't a place for you before I could even bring it up."

Adelaide stiffened. "Will you be all right? I know you act like you know everything, but these girls aren't past giving an orgy."

I laughed. "Thanks for your concern. I'll be all right, though. What I'm most concerned about is fitting in. I don't always do that so well."

"I thought you felt more at home in 1957 than anywhere," argued Adelaide.

"I do, but now … now I think I understand where Ray was coming from when he said we might struggle fitting in with everyone. We _don't_ fit in, not really with our modern mentality. The people here still have deep roots of racism, homophobia, and abstinence. We're attracting the misnomers of the time."

Adelaide smiled. "I don't think anyone will be calling us good-two-shoes anymore, then."

Appropriately, I went into my room to put on skinny jeans that were more paint than material. Promptly at six o'clock (everyone was prompt in 1957), the door opened without being knocked on and in emerged Valerie, Carmen, and Shirley. I was weary that they barged in without permission and hoped this was a common occurrence of the time.

Val cocked an eyebrow at my outfit, which was something I could roll out in in 2016 but had a strange affect upon these girls.

"Those jeans are even tighter than mine!" Shirley exclaimed.

"I'm jealous," Carmen said, but she appeared approving.

Val motioned out the door with her head. "We better get going or all the good food will be gone." I called to Adelaide that I was leaving and followed the girls outside. The elderly woman next door was gardening and narrowed her eyes at me above her sunflowers.

"What's up her arse?" Val asked within hearing range and I tried not to grimace. I knew that she suspected us and this was not opportune.

"I suspect all old ladies like that were deprived of sex their whole lives," I blurted suddenly. Shirley and Carmen erupted into laughter while Val just smirked. If figured this was of utmost approval from all of them, which gave me further confidence for the onset of the evening. "So, who's gonna be at this barbecue?"

"All of the best people in our class," Carmen told me. "This barbecue is fun because we hook up more than eat." I tried to nod casually instead of gape.

"Let me tell you who to stay away from," said Val. She railed off a few names that meant nothing to me and several vulgar descriptions of boys and girls entering senior year (or as they called it, Year 13).

"All of them are perverts and think they fit in with us," said Shirley. "They live near the old rubble piles from the War. Now, there's nothing wrong with being poor. You and your cousin might as well be considered rich from Liverpool's standards. But they might grow up to be prostitutes or making their money off rumbles. But we're just lower middle-class, we're not trying to be something we're not."

"Shirley," growled Val, "no one has that kind of attention span. In other words, Cecilia, their scum. Say, Cecilia is too pure—what's a better name for you?"

"I don't know, maybe we can think of one. My last name's Potter."

Carmen giggled. "Pot." I rolled my eyes, trying to be empathetic to the times.

"These things take time," said Val. "I'll let you know when I figure one out. And when I do, it'll stick." The girls stopped at an intersection and waved at a few boys and began keeping in stride with them. Instead of falling back like I normally did in such circumstances, I kept my pace beside Val. One of the boys put a rather hairy arm around her, but I could tell she was watching how I was handling the situation.

Val was the obvious leader of whatever clique the girls occupied. She did not seem like the type of person to let just anyone into her group because of her rather brusque personality. However, she must have noticed how the older boys gravitated towards me and considered this an equality factor. I supposed she was not power-hungry but steadfast in her habits and if I respected her as leader and considered Carmen and Shirley as advocated followers, she would look to me as her co-conspirator. All I had to figure out was if this grouping was autonomous or like many I have been involved in before: Dictatorial.

"This is Cecilia," Shirley introduced me. "She's American. Say something for them in your accent." Before I could either be awkward or give a dangerously insulting reply, one of the boys spoke up.

"I heard that American girls get their periods when they're eight and lose their virginity by twelve." I wanted to punt him across the avenue but decided against it.

"That's just the general consensus," I replied. "I got my period when I was five and—" I paused because I was still a virgin by all definitions.

"Do go on," said Carmen but everyone saved me by laughing.

Val whispered into my ear as we turned the corner onto a rugged street that made something prickle on the back of my neck. "Ben's an arsehole. Stay away from him if you want to keep the consensus of your virginity." So she could tell; I suppose I was glad she did not discount me for it what I perceived as fakeness from hanging around them. As we made our way down the backstreet littered with paper and dirt, I began to miss the romanticized 1957. This 1957 was not terrible but it was not safe either. It was just blunt reality. Everyone I had interacted with aforementioned was more forthcoming with … personal business than a lot of the people of 2016.

I began to feel more secure as I heard music being emitted from a static radio. We crossed into the backyard of an abandoned house where a large amount of teenagers congregated, the vast majority attractive. My stomach rumbled at the smell of roasting food and I was thankful there was an actual barbecue going on. Everyone seemed to have quite the appetite and I ravished in the feeling of gorging myself in a lot of semi-lean meat.

Val, Carmen, Shirley, and I grabbed food and settled on a step of the abandoned house. It was cracked in places but there were no chairs in which to sit on, or plates for that matter. The dizzying amount of ketchup I had doused onto my hamburger splattered onto my fingers but I had never been happier. My hamburger almost dropped when my vision settled on Paul McCartney. He was the handsomest boy there and he was standing respectfully to the side, picking at his food. I blushed when he caught me staring at him but he held my gaze and smiled.

Carmen squealed and Val groaned while Shirley looked about, bewildered.

"Tell me you're not getting sucked in too," Val said, rolling her eyes. "I swear, every girl in Liverpool but me has sworn they were in love with Paul McCartney at one point."

"I'm not in love with him," I said smoothly. "We're friends."

"Friends? What, are you on a first-name basis with him?"

"Yes, actually. We've been to the club together." Shirley snorted.

Val seemed more approving. "I'm glad you haven't disappointed me, then." I was certain, then, that there was a lot to this girl.

Before I knew it, Paul had approached me. My fingers were sticky from the ketchup and I started to panic a bit. My mind was dissociating and there was a funnel from the sky where it looked down at my done-up face reveling in Paul's.

"Fancy seeing you so soon again," he smiled. "How goes it?"

"Great. How are you?"

"I'll be better in a few days when I go on holiday. Hey, Val. Carmen, Shirley." He nodded to them consecutively.

Val grunted while the others murmured hellos.

"Wanna come get to know some more people?" asked Paul. I nodded a bit too enthusiastically—a moment alone with Paul!

Val stood up and tossed the remnants of her hot dog over the step. (People loved to litter in 1957 even if the items were not biodegradable.) "She came with us, but go ahead," she delivered sarcastically. Val was not an envious or prideful person, so what was her problem?

"Glad you don't own her," shot back Paul before taking my arm and steering me in the opposite direction. He accomplished this task so gracefully that I did not have time to give my regards to my new friends. There was a tinge of regret that there might already be a conflict forming between us. What kind of leverage would this mean, if the people who liked John despised Paul? Besides, I could not deal with more drama—

Paul's hand did fit nicely around my arm. He began to introduce me to a few people who I could care less about. While he did, I watched him the entire time and pictured him singing with his guitar again. It was a pleasant memory that would stay with me forever.

Paul sat down on the ground and I followed suit, feeling amazed that someone who would become so famous was human enough to get grass stains. "I know neither of us cares about anyone here. What I really came to say is that if you don't wanna turn out a loose bitch, you'll stay away from Valerie Verplank."

"Why?" I asked. "Is she a loose bitch?"

Paul chuckled. "How'd you guess? But yes, she is and everyone knows it. It's just not good to hang around with her. Authority hates her and so do a lot of the students she's fucked over. Literally and figuratively."

"Really?"

Paul sighed. "I don't know why she's being nice to you because she hates everyone but Carmen and Shirley. But I wouldn't trust her reasons. Just be careful is all I'm saying. People in this town make opinions pretty quickly and you wouldn't want them to get the wrong impression before they even know her."

"Thanks," I said. "Has she done anything to you personally that makes you hate her?"

"No, we've just always hated each other. Ever since elementary school. You know, we fought over who got the sandbox type thing."

"Who should I hang around with, then?" I asked him.

Paul cringed. "Well, dressing like that…. Valerie Verplank. I don't get you, Cecilia. Now, I don't mean that in a bad way. I just don't understand how you dress like that and yet I don't get the same impression of you."

I shrugged and gave the "being American" explanation I was quite positive would not get anywhere with Paul.

"I know why you're like that!" he suddenly exclaimed. I froze and paled.

"You're a musician!" I breathed.

"Speaking of, I'm so excited to see you join the Quarry Men." I must have looked like a fangirl because Paul gave a laugh that seemed more fearful than amused.

"It won't be for another few months, but me too. I think I can teach them a few things. Don't tell Lennon I said that, though."

"I won't. Why are you joining if you're more skilled, though?"

Paul looked like he had never even considered this himself. "I guess you can always learn from somebody older, is the way I look at it. They've got more experience than I—they can teach me more about the business."

"Paul!" screamed a girl; they were only a few years earlier than Beatlemania.

"Is she a blond with a deviated septum?" Paul asked, stiffening.

I squinted. "Well, her nose is sort of—"

"Catch you at school, Cecilia!" Before I could respond, Paul had gotten himself lost inside the crowd as if this was a frequent happening. The girl caught up with me, huffing and puffing.

"Do you know where Paul went?"

"No idea."

* * *

One of the nicer boys at the barbecue walked me home after talking with me about having no one to socialize with. As we got to the door, I realized why he had been short with me all the times I had engaged in conversation: He asked for my number. I hardly knew what the house phone was and was about to tell him so when we were interrupted.

"Get lost," cut in Valerie. Even as I tried to get him to stay, the boy saw her shadow approach and rushed away.

"That was rude."

"Would you rather me be rude or have you associate with unpopular people? Oh, don't give me that look. You're just too afraid to commit to being something that you want but never have had before. Neither of us care about popularity, really. We just want to be more than what everyone else is. You idealize things a bit more than I do, but it's the same deal."

"Okay," I said, "you're right." She seemed satisfied.

"I know Paul McCartney tried to tell you to stay away from me but you're not going to listen to him even if he was Elvis incarnate." I started giggling but she ignored it. "Because I can give you a lot more connections and opportunities. You're a musician, right? Not one of those skiffles but a real one. I don't know what you're doing in Liverpool but I bet you have your reasons same as I have mine that I haven't run away. So, we're going to help each other out."

"Okay," I said, "How?"

"I'm going to be a benefactor in welcoming you into our group and you're going to be the mediator between the goody-two-shoes and the rebels. I could never stand false appearances and so there won't be any of this arse-kissing or fakeness. But when we help each other out, we'll have the leverage and acceptance we've always wanted and deserved."

I thought for a while, feeling like I was having an OBE as the sun went down behind the house and Valerie said all these things you rarely voice to another person, let alone someone you have just met. "I understand you, and you understand me," I told her. Her mentality reminded me of someone.

She must have taken this as my word. "Good night," she said, staring longingly at the cute house. I went inside, wondering why someone so masculine and realistic had barred such a wistful expression.

* * *

 **A/N:** Yay, an update! I'm so happy about the reviews I've gotten. If you have any specific questions about the stories, I can respond to you if you have an account through a PM. That way you won't have to wait not knowing when there will be an update. :)


	5. The Man in the Church

"I want to tell you

My head is filled with things to say

When you're here

All those words, they seem to slip away."

-"I Want to Tell You," the Beatles

Adelaide's P.O.V.

 _I was eight years old and my father had gray hair. It was like a spray of pepper on a face that had aged years in a day. My mother didn't have gray hair and she didn't dye her hair either._

 _I was sitting upstairs against the wall, crying in gasping sobs. My parents were screaming at each other downstairs, calling each other names that made my skin crawl. They would always fight like this once in a while._

 _But everything usually went back to normal._

 _After a few minutes of silence, my mother called me downstairs. My stomach was doing somersaults through the tension as I took slow steps down each stair. When I faced my parents, I stared at my feet, wiggling the painted toes._

 _My mother was crying. "Say goodbye to your father, Adelaide. He might not be coming back."_

 _"_ _That's a lie, Katrina! I'll be back tomorrow, Adelaide."_

 _"_ _It's not a lie. You might not come back, and even if you do she won't recognize you." My father cringed. "It's your decision, George. Don't make me try to feel guilty."_

 _"_ _Is Daddy leaving?" I asked. "Are you getting a divorce?"_

 _"_ _No, honey, your mother and I still love each other very much. I'm just going on a little trip, is all."_

 _"_ _Like a work trip?"_

 _"_ _Yes, like a work trip. And when I come back, I'll bring you lots of souvenirs. I have one for you now, actually." He reached into a burlap sack and pulled out a 45 record titled "Yesterday and Today." It had a picture of four men with dead babies hanging off their shoulders. "There are only a few like this in the whole world." He pointed to the picture. "It's worth a lot of money. The music's good, too. Make sure you listen to it … when you miss me."_

 _"_ _She's going to have nightmares now," my mother said before she left the room. She did not return._

 _"_ _I'll see you soon, Adelaide, I promise," my father whispered, kissing me on top of the head. He started singing a song called "It Won't Be Long." My father wasn't a good singer and he almost whispered the notes out, but it was clear they meant something to him._

 _"_ _Remember me, won't you?" He was crying now. I began giving out little girl sobs again; it was not good to see my daddy cry and I didn't know why he would cry anyway._

 _He stood in front of our door for the last time. "If you ever forget to remember, ask the man at St. Peter's Church." He gave me another hug. "I'll be back," he said._

 _But he never did come back again._

I woke up in a sweat.

It was sweltering inside the house even with the ceiling fan humming above me. I pictured Cecilia in the next room. She always slept soundly once she was calm, but I wanted to be considerate in leaving a note in case she happened to hear me leave. I scribbled out a sentence on a piece of a grocery list and stuck it near her keyboard.

It had been years since I had really remembered my father. It was probably a combination of blocking out the memories and the fog which seemed to deliberately surround them. But the dream I had had to be a memory. I wouldn't let it be anything else.

It was a warm night. I felt strange being out in the wee hours of the morning because there are never good reasons for it. There was not even a moon tonight. I treaded on the farthest side of the sidewalk, watching for stragglers. There was no one on the road and I breathed in relief. Still, I walked faster, trying to beat some imaginary and mysterious force from seeing me in the dark. Rapists and murderers did not worry me but the pressure of sadness and loss seemed able to crush me if it could catch up.

I knew the Church would be open and yet it still relieved me that it was. Walking inside the dimly lighted pews felt more like a dream than my dream had been.

There was the back of the homeless man's head. He was sitting right where he had been when we first came and he had yelled at Cecilia and me to come pray with him. He must have known someone had made their presence because he turned around from his seat. I thought he would ask me to pray with him again, but instead his eyes bugged and he stood up and started to approach me. I backed away, my vision tunneling.

"I know you. You shouldn't be here. No, you shouldn't be here at all!"

"What do you mean?" I asked. The man ignored me.

"Go away! Go home! The voices are so strong. They are telling me to tell you to go home, or you will be as crazy as _him_!"

"My father?"

"He didn't want you to go, you know." My eyes were the only thing that moved when the homeless man halted and leaned against the pew. "He went so you wouldn't have to. And you know what happened? He's dead…. You cry because you can't even remember your daddy. Yes, he might as well be dead. Ah, he just passed it down through the family. He never learned, did 'e? He-"

"Why do you have an American accent?"

"My father didn't want me so he left me to my mother. And she didn't want me so she left me with my sister. And she didn't want me…. Say, I used to be on vaudeville. I used to be the kid with the blackface. I could've been real good, you know. But then I was drafted for the war.

"I caught off a lot of good Nazi fingers and fried 'em, too. Nazis always talk about burning the Jews, but we burned 'em, too. I was good at killing Nazis but it was easier for my sister to get money from the Church. Shipped me off 'ere, they did, and since I wasn't good at religion I couldn't be a priest. Only thing I'm good at now is being a bum."

"What is this place? Tell me what it is."

The man changed again. "Come, pray with me! Let us pray by the tabernacle and prostrate to the Mother Mary!" He bowed and kneeled.

I shivered at the familiar words and ran out. I balked, feeling a hand on my shoulder.

"One more thing," he told me, almost seeming sane. He leaned over to whisper in my ear and I froze.

Cecilia poured me some milk and she wiped off the excess with a napkin. For someone acting like a responsible adult with a job, she was lazy when it came to kitchen duties.

"He's nuts," I rambled. "You know, he's prolly just a crazy vet who likes to make fun of people."

"It sounds like there's more to it than that," Cecilia replied. The truth was the last thing I needed at the moment.

"I don't trust him. He knows something's off about us and is just playing with my mind. I was stupid to go."

"Do you want me to yell at you for leaving in the middle of the night to talk to a hobo?" asked Cecilia.

"Yes."

"Well stop trying so hard because I don't need an actual reason to yell at anybody." I laughed painfully. "I'm actually glad you went. Now we know where we can get some actual information on this universe. We need to know more about it than Ray if we want to be successful on our mission."

"I don't want to go back to him, Cecilia. There has to be another way we can figure it out."

"What's so scary about about him?" she asked. "Besides the frying fingers part?"

"He's just off." I thought about what he whispered into my ear and shivered.

"You look like you're gonna upchuck. What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing—"

"Tell me, Adelaide! We can't keep things from each other, we—"

The door banged open and I screamed. Cecilia did too but for different reasons. The Quarrymen (John, Colin, and even Eric) rushed into the house. "Wanna go for a ride, Adelaide?" asked John, pulling his arm around me. It felt out of place in my fragile condition and I did not feel at one with my body but was a little more secure.

"You can afford a car?" asked Cecilia. That comment really bites back in 1957.

"You can't come anyway, so what does it matter?"

Cecilia looked genuinely upset. "Why not?"

"You're working. Unless you quit your job, you can't come."

"I don't work every day!" exclaimed Cecilia.

"I know."

Cecilia sighed. "Then why can't I come?"

"Because only the blokes without money ride on top of the bus," jumped in Eric. John looked angry that he did not get to deliver this line.

"I haven't even gotten my first paycheck."

"Stop being dicks, lads," said Colin. "Let 'er ride."

"I think she'll be too afraid to ride on top of the bus anyway. I'm sparing her the embarrassment of fainting into my arms like a damsel in distress." I rolled my eyes at John, tossing his arm off my shoulder. He didn't seem to notice.

Cecilia inhaled, looking like she was taking in a great deal of courage because of our luck of managing to be in 1957. "You know what? Ride your damn bus, John Lennon. I don't give a fuck what you do with or without me. I'm sick of being baited."

"I respect your feelings, Cecilia, really." She scoffed and flipped him off. He looked impressed but coolly turned to me. "Come on, Adelaide. We don't wanna miss the bus."

It was less than five minutes that we were outside when John went back to get Cecilia. I sighed, waiting for the bus with Colin and Eric. I felt used and jaded, wallowing in the pity that I was even John Lennon's scapegoat.

"I wonder how he'll convince her to come," said Colin. "It's more than pride keeping her back than being afraid."

"I'm sick of her already," grumbled Eric. "She's annoying and loud. At least this one keeps her mouth shut." Maybe Cecilia is annoying and loud, but at least she isn't a misogynistic pervert.

"Guess she isn't comin'," Colin noted with a smirk. John was running towards us and shaking his head.

"She wasn't there at all." I paled, knowing full well where she went. "What's got your thong in a knot, Adelaide?"

"…Just riding on top of the bus, is all." I just lied to John Lennon. Speaking of the devil, the greyhound pulled up and expelled its fuel right in our faces. A few people trudged onto the bus and Eric and John began climbing up the poles to reach the top. Colin watched out for them and then motioned for me to go. My hands clenched on the rails and I struggled to let go even for John to pull me up on top of the bus. Eric leaned back, lying down as if this was a common occurrence.

"Wonder where she went," John said, making my anxiety and annoyance increase simultaneously.

"Library, I'm sure," replied Colin.

"Why, you wanna follow 'er everywhere, Johnny?" asked Eric without much question in his voice. "A girl who plays good music is nothin' when she's terrible in the sack."

In my process in scooting towards the center of the bus, I halted abruptly. "Have you forgotten I exist?"

"What are you gonna do about it? Throw me off the bus? I bet you can barely lift a gallon of milk." He turned to John again. "'Sides, she's not blond anyway."

John examined his nails. "I don't need convincing, Eric. The only reason I talk to 'er is 'cause Val told me she's in with her and the girls."

Colin knocked his head backwards on the bus laughing. "How the bloody hell?" The bus's engine scuttled to a start and my heart started pulsing faster as it began moving.

"Maybe she knows," Eric said. They all looked at me but I couldn't answer because I was trembling. The bus revved and turned sharply—John had to push me back towards the center when I went crashing into him and Colin. I did not want to go anywhere near the edge of the bus but started to inch my way there.

"Adelaide, careful—" started Colin.

"She all right?" John asked just as I threw my head over the side of the bus and puked. It was then that the bus halted at its next stop, where the others decided it would be best for me to get off. Eric was the only one who remained because he wasn't in the mood for me to compromise his plans. I sat down on a bench, feeling fine except for the embarrassment crawling inside me.

"Ya good, Adelaide?" John asked me. "'Cause we gotta go nick some shit." He gestured with his thumb backwards at a dilapidated record store that in 1957 looked outdated.

"Can I come?"

"Are ya really in that good of a condition? Ya gotta be able to run."

"How about the fact we don't want to turn a nice American girl into a delinquent?" Colin said.

"I won't steal anything," I told them. "I'll just come along for the thrill. And I can run fast."

"Just don't tell Cecilia about this or she won't let you hang around us anymore."

I got up, the sun shining a bit too brightly and black spots dancing in front of my eyes. "There's a lot more to Cecilia than what you think. Just like everyone else." John looked pensive for a moment but then we opened the door and walked into the shop.

There are no store cameras in 1957 or attentive cashiers, so it was hard to imagine how good people must have been not to steal all the time. I had never had an interest in stealing or any other such activities because I never really considered it. My mother had always given me money if I wanted something or paid for it herself. I supposed stealing must be more of a boy thing—especially poorer ones. Not that John was poor, but he certainly didn't have much of his own money.

I went through the aisles, trying to ignore how decrepit and disgusting the inside of the store was. The albums were covered in dust and were often damaged without being marked "used." Half of them were in the wrong bins and mislabeled so that the record one pulled out did not match the cover. Looking over next to me, I balked in surprise.

Going through the classical section was our one-and-only elderly neighbor. "Hello," I said, trying to be friendly. She looked up at me. It was unclear whether she was deaf but either way she stared blankly even when I smiled.

Getting out of that situation, I meandered over to where John and Colin were in the back of the store. If I expected an undercover technique from either of them, it wasn't what happened. They were quite obvious in the way they made a ton of noise and often a mess if they came upon a jazz record. John stuffed whatever he could into his jacket and didn't even bother looking half the time to see what he got. Colin did the same—neither of them were able to get anything bigger than a forty-five.

They walked out of the store while trying not to spill the bulky contents in their coats. Then they started running for fun, forty-fives trailing off behind them. I kept up easily, for in reality they were just big talkers and little boys inside men's bodies. John led us until we were almost to Menlove and settled under a weeping willow in someone's backyard. They toppled over onto their stomachs and rolled onto the grass. I settled down beside them, placing my chin on my hands as I watched the adorable yet insane John and Colin start to go through the albums.

John whooped. "You know this one, Adelaide?" he asked me. I must have given him a look.

"No."

"What, have your parents restricted you from sex _and_ rock 'n' roll?"

"John, I'm fourteen."

"So was I once, three years ago."

Colin tossed an album to me. "Give this one to Cecilia. She told me she likes Johnny Cash. Why, I don't know."

"There's lots of … romance gone wrong in his songs."

John expelled a puff of cigarette smoke, leaning his teddy boy hair on his arm in the grass. "Some American bloke she caught up on?"

"Not that I know of. We don't talk much about that stuff."

"You're not loads close for bein' cousins comin' to Liverpool without parents," noted Colin. He was a bit too perceptive for my taste.

"There's a few years between us. She's … got a different view on life, is all."

"That's a crock of bull," replied John. "Admit it. You don't know your own cousin."

I shrugged. "Do we even know anyone, really?"

"This is gettin' a bit too philosophical for me," Colin said. "I think it's more simple than what either of you are saying. You're cousins but you're not friends."

"Then why'd you even come here together?" John asked.

"Our parents didn't want us to go alone, I don't know!"

"Why 'ere, anyway? You're from America! The land of the free and brave!"

I pulled at the grass, trying not to spin. "You've built up America in your heads, then, because it sucks just like anywhere else!" Great, now I blasphemed my own country.

"At least America isn't a police state," Colin argued.

"I don't know what to tell you."

"Seems you have your own reasons for not telling _us._ But no matter. We won't go on hatin' ya for it."

John was eerily quiet as he stood up. "Come on, Colin, let's go listen to these and try and sort out the chords."

Colin stood up, trying to neaten the forty-fives in his hands. "Try and catch ya at a better time, Adelaide. Maybe Johnny can catch up on your drawings too, eh?" John didn't even perk up at this. He was completely stoic.

"See you. I'll try not to barf over the bus next time."

They turned to go but John hesitated. "Make sure Cecilia knows I was jokin' earlier, will ya?" I nodded and then started on home, trying to run but not get lost in the process.

The first bad sign was a patrol car parked outside the house. I flew up to the front door in slow motion, knowing that we had been found out for staying here illegally. I went to open the door but it was swung from inside.

"Thank God you're back," Cecilia gasped. I looked past her inside the house. One police officer was standing in the empty kitchen. There was more noise coming from inside the house, as if someone was searching for something. I thought of the bag and notebook filled with information that I hoped was safe in the attic.

"They said you stole records," Cecilia continued when I stepped inside. The police officer standing in the kitchen left to get his partner.

"Why would I steal records?" I asked.

"I don't know! They got an anonymous tip. This is ridiculous!"

I froze but Cecilia didn't seem to notice. So the old woman _had_ told on me about something but it was not what I thought it would be.

I considered what had happened in the middle of the night and Cecilia's reaction and knew she would want me to say something. It would be regrettable but we could not keep things from each other. She was ultimately right—because if we did, then we would lose the game. Not just the game with the law, but also the Beatles and Mark David Chapman. "It was John and Colin. _They_ stole the records," I whispered. She cussed.

The police officers emerged from the room and came over to me. They asked to search me and treated me like I was a monster. Cecilia looked like she was struggling with something and I prayed she wouldn't say anything, no matter what happened.

"Tell them, Adelaide," she blurted. She started talking before I could say anything because she knew the most about how to handle this like an adult. "She just told me that there were two boys walking in front of her in the store. My little cousin would never steal records." She started to cry a bit and it looked a real; Cecilia did cry a lot. "We came to Liverpool for an education and now this happened. We came here to start over and—"

The younger police officer seemed more sympathetic to the damsel. "There, there, miss. We just have to go through protocol. We're just going to ask her a few questions and then we'll be on our way. Crazy old ladies, you know?" His partner nodded in agreement. "We're just going to ask you to leave the room until we're done."

"She's a minor, Officer," Cecilia argued. "Can't I please at least sit in?" Cecilia failed to mention that she herself was also a minor. Perhaps it was better this way.

The older officer let her stay and stood up since there were not many chairs at the table. "Now, Adelaide Kelly, how old are you?"

"Fourteen." He wrote something down on a piece of paper.

"And why have you come to Liverpool?"

I looked at Cecilia. "Our parents wanted us to for education."

Cecilia jumped in. "My parents in particular have a lot of background here. They went to the College of Art when they were our age. I think they want us to experience the culture they fell in love with. They didn't want me to go alone so they had Adelaide come with me."

The officers nodded again, pleased with Cecilia's answers. Thank God she was here.

"So you jumped at the opportunity of being independent?" She nodded, plastering on a smile. "So what were you doing at the record store?"

"I was just there with some guys we met the other day." Cecilia looked murderous but I plowed on. "I was browsing in some other section. Even the old lady can tell you that. She was going through classical music if you want to ask her." I felt the tension ease a bit. "I didn't know they were about to steal, so I just walked out behind them."

"Of course this would happen!" Cecilia said and I knew she wasn't all faking. "I told you they were trouble. I shouldn't have let you even go out alone in Liverpool." The officers seemed pleased by her distress.

"So, what are their names?"

"Who?" I asked.

"The boys who you were in the record store with."

"John and Colin," Cecilia said without hesitating.

"Do you know their last names?" I asked her, playing along.

"No, they never told me. We just got here a week and a half ago," she informed the officers. They jotted some more information down and asked a few descriptive questions about the boys that we skirted over as best we could. After a while, they became bored, which was a good sign considering we did not want them to come back. Soon enough, they thanked us for answering their questions and shook our hands.

"So, what happens now?" asked Cecilia.

"It's shoplifting at Ricky's Record Store. They'll probably be closing down in few months' time anyway. We can't do much about shoplifting and it's a waste of time compared to other crimes in Liverpool. Without their full names, you can't do much. And tons of boys fit their descriptions. So nothing really happens. You girls be careful what people you hang around with. This was a good wakeup call for both of you."

Cecilia nodded and thanked them. After a few moments in silence, I went out the front door and picked up the Johnny Cash record that I dropped in the front lawn in my rush to get to the house. I made sure the old lady wasn't creeping from her window and went inside with it.

"Was this stolen?" Cecilia asked when I handed it to her. I blushed. "No matter. I like Johnny Cash. 'Walk the Line' is one of my favorites. It's time we get a record player, don't you think?"

I agreed. "By the way, John basically apologized to you. He said he was joking."

"Whatever." There seemed to be a lot more she was straining to say and it was taking a lot of effort for her to keep it in.

"He has this strange obsession with you," I went on. "I don't think he's into you but he seems to be obsessed with you anyway."

"Think he'd still be obsessed with me if he knew that I used to do pelvic thrusts in time with 'Yer Blues' and reblogged McLennon gifs on Tumblr?"

"I mean, we all have our quirks."

"You could say the same thing about Charlie Manson."

There was a moment of silence. "So, did you talk to the hobo?"

Cecilia plopped down into a chair. "No, he wouldn't talk to me! He kept asking me to pray and wouldn't answer any of my questions. Occasionally he threw in a few, 'You shouldn't be here's. Now aren't you going to tell me what he said to you?"

"There's no going back once I do, you hear?"

"Just tell me."

"He said, 'Number 9.'"

* * *

 **A/N:** FYI, the rating might go up to M.

Thank you for reading. I was hoping for more reviews last chapter but I Should've Known Better. More Beatles puns if you review! (Yes, I'm bribing you with Beatles puns.) I will also answer more questions if you review, especially if you do it through your account. I love sharing the background of my story as I write it.

I am very aware that there are many different errors (both typos and historical inaccuracy). Over the summer I will correct these errors. Since everything major is fine, not much will change. I also realize there's an extensive timeline on this. I have it planned out so it will not exceed a period of many years to write. As you can see, there is an actual storyline and multiple underlying plots going on here. I'm excited to show you all where the story will take us this summer.

If I failed to mention this before, there's only one writer now, but I'm confident in my decision to keep the different POVs. Both of these characters have something unique to offer through their different perceptions.

Overall, the goal for 12/09/80 is not to be overall historically accurate or a girly fanfiction but something anyone would like to read. Yes, it does cater to a certain audience, but it's something a lot of different people can enjoy because of its relatability, in my humble opinion. Not everything is completely accurate, including the characters and events. It's romanticized but you will be able to see how that will work to its advantage as the plot progresses.

This was a long author's note. I enjoyed writing it and hope that you enjoyed getting this extra information about the story. Review and ask as many questions as you want! Have a nice week. :)

-Italia8989


	6. Death and Tutti Frutti

Cecilia's P.O.V.

"She's not a girl who misses much

She's well acquainted with the touch of the velvet hand

Like a lizard on a window pane."

"Happiness is a Warm Gun," The Beatles

I shivered. "So you think he's trying to tell us Paul really dies?"

"That isn't funny, Cecilia. What do you think it could mean?"

I plopped myself down on the couch, feeling the non-air-conditioned summer heat seep into my nauseated state from what Adelaide had told me. The old man was senile but this could not have been a coincidence. The Beatles' song "Revolution 9" was an eight-minute track in B minor including various sections of loops, dialogue, and sections from other bits of music. There were some phonetic meanings if you reversed it. However, I had just accepted it as John Lennon's experimental phase with Yoko and nothing more. Even now, I was not apt to jump into a conspiracy theory.

"Well, look at what it symbolizes," I said. Alone, the number 9 represents universal spirituality and creativity. It was also associated many times in John's life, such as 9 Menlove Avenue. He mentioned in the Anthology that it was the highest number because after 9 is 0 again.

"So it's basically John's lucky number?"

"Yeah, but it also seems to be a part of his soul. It's the day he was born and died."

" _Will_ die, if we don't stop it. Which we will. But it still doesn't make sense. What would that signify?"

"The ebb and flow of life, I don't know!"

Adelaide's eyes brightened. "You could be onto something. Maybe it has to do with the rules of this universe. I mean, that _is_ what I was asking him about. Let's try listening to the song!"

I gave her a pointed look.

"I have my phone and charger. The music still works because the North Pole is still the North Pole." She climbed up to the attic and began rummaging through our bag of modern goods in the back. Ducking around cobwebs, I watched Adelaide as she excitedly lowered herself from the attic and plugged her phone into an outlet. After some adjusting of the plug, Adelaide's phone lit up. It did not take long for her to be able to open it and I looked over all of her apps that I had never gone a day without before time traveling. I was never dependent on technology but it was protection from the modern world.

Adelaide pulled up her music and scrolled through her Beatles albums. She had never deleted "Revolution 9," which is strange but an outright miracle. With the volume on low, she played it. Ah, familiarity! This was modern to us. We were quiet for a moment, tolerating the strange sounds emitted from the speaker in Adelaide's phone. The noises began getting more intense and I soon felt like I was going to blow a gasket.

"That isn't helping! Turn it!" Adelaide proceeded to click on another Beatles song. We had gone through withdrawal not listening to them and it was the sweetest feeling hearing "Happiness is a Warm Gun."

"This has just left us more confused. Let's go back and talk to the man together," I suggested. Sighing, Adelaide shoved her phone into the bag and I made her walk up to put it back inside the attic. "I think I'll get rid of my phone soon."

"Why?" she asked, locking the door. I waved to the old woman cutting her bushes with shears and then flipped her off when she was not looking.

"Because it's just a reminder of my horrible past life in 2016. It's my one remaining tie."

"Don't you want that tie to know that this isn't all real?"

I shrugged. "I don't need that. And besides, the point is I'd _rather_ this be all real."

"Not when we're thrown in an insane asylum."

I fanned myself; it seemed that the heat was finally getting to me. "It wouldn't be much different from 2016. The only difference would be that everyone would know they're insane."

Adelaide moved a little farther away from me as we walked down the sidewalk in a fast pace. We both had a rushing intuition of getting to the Church as fast as possible. Perhaps it was the suspense of asking what the cryptic old man meant by mentioning the number 9. We could never get a straight answer from him, but it was better than waiting another minute guessing ourselves. I started humming a bit of harmony from the songs on _Beatles For Sale_ , trying to calm my sense of urgency.

More people attended Church in 1957 but the congregation was particularly large today. There were even priests outside praying. Adelaide and I bounced up the marble stairs and inside the cooler Church. There was a gust of air as we entered and a more clammy feeling entered my body. There was a prayer being murmured near the steps leading up to the altar that reminded me of Anointing of the Sick. Adelaide started moving towards the priest but I held her back.

We crouched in between the aisles and moved upwards, trying to get to a good vantage point in order to discover what was going on. A few more people had entered the Church and we heard old-fashioned sirens. (They were definitely coming to the Church, as the Doppler Effect had informed me from what I learned in physics class.) I swore to myself and Jesus until the priest moved—to reveal the heaping form of the homeless man. A small pool of dark blood had formed on the floor, emitted from the man's head.

Adelaide froze and started gasping in sharp breaths. I lowered her head so she would not have to look anymore, trying to be patient in remembering that she was young and some people were sensitive to blood. Thankfully, I had seen too many cop shows.

The priests huddled in a corner, their voices carrying over to us. "It looks like suicide. He's holding the gun."

"God have mercy upon him. Or purgatory."

A creaking noise of someone else entering came from the doors. The group of policemen and constables that were at our house walked through the center aisle. One of them got out some tape and ordered the priests to go outside and not let anyone inside the Church. Adelaide and I crouched below the aisles again and ran across to the front door. We caught our breaths at the side of the building and then went to stand by the sidewalk in front of St. Peter's.

"I don't feel well," said Adelaide. "It's so hot." I had her sit on a bench and put her head between her knees. This was too similar to when we had just come through into 1957 to be a coincidence. As a matter of fact, the homeless man committing suicide right before we were to meet him could not be a coincidence. How would he get a gun, anyway?

"I want to go home," whined Adelaide, sounding like a little girl. It was in that moment that it had finally sunken in: this was our lives and this was not a game. This was our lives and I was the adult.

"Okay, we'll go home then." I took Adelaide's hand, still stupefied and trying to comprehend why the sight of the dead man had this much significance upon her. In this moment, she was not my friend but my little sister. But there were no parents to run home to, so she needed to fix her skinned knees and get on with it. "You don't want to go back, do you?"

"Yeah, but we're too far into it now. So we won't."

"Do you want to stop at the bakery or something?" Adults sometimes gave children food when they were upset. It always was a surefire way that made me feel better.

Adelaide rejected my offer of a headlight and instead spent the remainder of the day staring at her unfinished drawings.

* * *

The next morning, I awoke before 8:30 and so it was automatically an accomplished day. Leaving Adelaide a quick note, I ran out to the drug store to pick up the newspaper, gum, chocolate, and Aspirin for the lack of Ibuprofen. In a few hours when my period hit, I probably would not be so fond of 1957. Everything was put into a thick brown paper bag that folded over. Grabbing the newspaper and wishing the cashier good day, I scanned the local newspaper. A few murders were advertised on the front page along with "Suicide in a Place of Worship." Sitting down at a bench and feeling very vintage, I flipped to the right page. After a bit of navigation, I spotted the article and started scanning the article.

 **Suicide in a Place of Worship**

 **On Sunday, 21 July 1957, a nameless man was found at St. Peter's Church in Liverpool with a gun in his hand. After investigation upon the Constables, it was concluded that the man had committed suicide.**

 **According to Father Clemente, the man was a regular attendant at St. Peter's. "He was here every day and sometimes would stay through the night. If he didn't stay through, he was always on a bench outside trying to keep warm." Clemente insists that although he does not want publicity through the newspapers, he wants readers to know that the Church has done all they can in helping the homeless but needs more funds in order to do more.**

 **Authorities have also concluded that the man was homeless. They are unable to conduct an autopsy in relation to motives of his suicide, but are obligated to find the origins of the gun he obtained.**

 **"** **We've been praying every day that he gets to heaven," says Clemente, "but God casts the final judgment on everyone." Clemente hopes that this article gives attention to those about suicide and its dangers in compromising the experiences of the afterlife.**

Ugh, and to think I spent money on that piece of shit.

By the time I got home and brought in the milk from the chute, Adelaide was still asleep. I had to leave for work and hoped that she would not mope around all day.

It was a long, hot day for me at the bank. I kept making mathematical errors and apologizing to customers. My makeup had probably melted off and my face along with it. My employer stood over several of my transactions, making me feel like a fish out of water. However, when I finished one at four-thirty, he put his hand on my shoulder and looked sympathetic.

"Go enjoy the rest of your day. You're still young and should have some fun before you spend the rest of your life here like me."

"Thank you!" I said, ready to kiss him. It seemed that I was waiting for something all day and I took my reprieve with gratitude. I skedaddled out of the bank, feeling the afternoon sun upon my face. Before I realized what I was doing, my feet started traversing on an alternate route home. The sun must have been really getting to me.

When I finally reached Menlove Avenue, I was debilitated. As I walked by John Lennon's house and saw him and his aunt gardening outside, I stifled back a simultaneous laugh and cry. The laugh was for the livened John who did not fit this gardening personality and the cry was for what was of these early days. What can I say? I am a cathartic person. Slowing my walk, I called out.

"I didn't know you lived here, John!" Mimi turned down the classical music being played from the battery radio. It was similar to the one I used when gardening at my grandmother's house. Mimi was nothing like my grandmother but it was an eerie parallel between the two women.

John looked horrified while Mimi wrinkled her nose at me. "Uh, yeah."

"Who's this, John?" Mimi asked.

"I'm Cecilia Potter," I stated before John could open his mouth. I walked over to her and shook her gloved hand. "I'm an exchange student from America. My parents are from Liverpool," I lied. "What a nice garden you have."

"Thank you," said Mimi, handing John her shovel. "How do you two know each other?"

"My cousin and I saw him at St. Peter's performing."

"Oh. What do you think?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

I gave a soft laugh. "Well, I wouldn't know much about music. I work at the bank." John's eyes widened behind Mimi and he gave a snort of disbelief.

Mimi chastised John. "Is that why you are dressed so nicely? No girl ever comes around here looking like that. Please, come in for a drink. I've made some lemonade."

"Thank you, that's very nice."

As I followed Mimi inside, John put his hand on my arm and whispered into my ear. "Whaddaya doin' this for?"

I ignored him and followed Mimi into the kitchen. She poured the three of us cold glasses of real lemonade and not the carton kind from Wegmans. "Pull out a seat for her," she told John. He obeyed her and I settled down, sipping delicately.

"Are you still in school, Cecilia?"

"Yes, I'm about to be in … thirteenth year."

"Well, I wouldn't know it. You act just like an adult."

John drained his glass and slammed it down on the table. "Mimi, I wanna show Cecilia somethin'. We'll be back."

"John, a girl like Cecilia wouldn't like to listen to your terrible records and see your juvenile guitar."

"It's a _ukulele_."

Mimi sighed and turned to me. "If you don't want to, Cecilia—"

"Lia doesn't mind." Mimi and I both seemed surprised at the new nickname.

"It will be a new experience for me," I said, giving Mimi a knowing look. She seemed relieved that the likes of me was at their house in the first place, so she let me go upstairs with John. He led me into his room, which was a rampage of tossed clothes and records placed on the walls and on his bed.

"What, do you sleep with them?"

"Almost as much as girls." I rolled my eyes. He opened up his record player and moved the needle back and put on a record.

"Did you steal this one?" I asked.

"So Adelaide told you. Figures."

"She didn't have to tell me. The fuckin' police did it for her!"

"What?"

I pointed my finger in his plaid chest. "Our neighbor caught Adelaide and saw her with you. We're not even in our house legally, so don't for one second take this lightly. We saved your asses by pretending not to know your last names. I don't care what you do during your free time, but _count us out of it._ " I paused. "So, who's this?"

John relaxed and stopped sweating. "It's Little Richard. How can you know what rock 'n' roll is and not know 'Tutti Frutti'?"

"Tutti Frutti" was rambunctious for this time period, with an intro that sounded like the finale of _Grease._ Little Richard had an incredible range. Wanting to sing in my head voice but knowing Mimi was downstairs, I compensated by dancing. John checked me out and I pretended not to notice.

"How do you do that? Go from that nice girl to … this one?"

"I'm both of those girls," I told him, feeling like I was undergoing a stroke when I grabbed his hand. He spun me around. "Music just makes me weird."

"I like the weird Lia better."

"Me too, but she's gotten me in trouble." The song climaxed and we stopped talking for a moment, just shaking our butts. Dancing to rock 'n' roll is the best workout.

"It's gotten me in trouble too."

"Ah, but you can just punch the people you hate. In America, I had to smile at them."

John lay down, stretching his legs out on his bed while I sat underneath them. "We tried askin' Adelaide about American life the other day but she got all defensive about it. Why's that? Are your parents really from here, anyway?"

"No, I just said that to please Mimi. They went to University here, though," I said. "I don't know about Adelaide. But for me, I'd get defensive just because I want to put it behind me. America isn't bad or anything, but my life wasn't the greatest."

"You mean about your father?" I remembered the conversation John and I had the morning after his gig at the bar.

"Yeah, that and a few other things. But I'd rather put the past behind me."

"Did someone beat you or rape you?"

I laughed. "No, nothing like that. It gives you some relativity though, doesn't it?"

"Whatever. We better go back down though. You have to keep up your appearance and you can't do that if Mimi thinks we're making love."

I straightened my hair and turned off the record for John. "What are you doing for the rest of the night?"

"Nothing but I'm gonna sneak out later when Mimi's asleep. To see Julia," he added.

"How's it going for you both?"

He shrugged. "She's got a lot on her hands. But it's all right. That's why I never want kids or a wife. It's too much to put up with." I laughed until tears came into my eyes. John just seemed to accept it. That would be one part of the past best left alone. John got his ukulele from its place in the corner of his room and lead the way out.

I walked downstairs, my shoes clacking on the wooden steps. "What did you think of that obnoxious music?" asked Mimi. John seethed in frustration.

"It was very different."

She looked at me from stirring some kind of stew. "Different isn't usually good. Would you like to stay for dinner, Cecilia? John knows I make too much. Ever since my husband died…."

"Oh no, I'm supposed to get home to my cousin. But thank you for the offer."

"All right. But please come over any time. We're always happy to have you. John, can you bring me some parsley from the garden?"

John grumbled but obliged, slamming the door on his way out.

"Cecilia, I hate to ask you this, but would you mind coming over more often? I don't want to embarrass him, but John doesn't mosey with nice girls like you. Usually he hates them. I don't want to ask someone as kind as you to be exposed to a hopeless case, but I care about him so much and feel like you'd be willing to give him a chance. Would you?"

I was going to have a field day with this. "Of course, Mrs.?"

"Smith. Call me Mrs. Smith."

"I like John very much, Mrs. Smith. Maybe I'll try to sneak in some Bach or Rachmaninoff when he's playing his rock 'n' roll."

Mimi beamed and John arrived with the parsley. "Are you going to walk Cecilia home, John?"

"Sure. I might not be home for a while after that."

"Don't make me wait up too long."

"I will. Bye, Mimi!" John waved and took off out the door. As we walked down his driveway and onto the sidewalk, he turned to me with an abashed look. "Did Adelaide tell you that I was joking about the bus thing?"

"Yeah, but I still want you to feel guilty about it."

"I'm—I'm really sorry. I went back to look for ya after but you were gone. Wanna make up for it now? We can catch a bus and go downtown."

"I'd love to, but Adelaide has been home alone all day." I thought of her expression when she saw the lifeless homeless man on the floor. She must have felt a connection with him to react in such a way. "Maybe another time."

John prostrated for me on his knees. "Please, Cecilia Potter. Will you go downtown with me? It'll be quick!"

"Get off your knees. I'll go. But why do you want me to so badly? Have you fallen in love with me?"

John started laughing hysterically this time. "I just want to see you fall off the bus!"

"Watch it." He shut his mouth and we walked to the bus stop in silence. I captured the night in my memory: the clicking of our shoes on the pavement, the sun falling from the sky, and John Lennon walking beside me.

Barely anyone was waiting for the bus, so John helped me up right away, putting his ukulele case onto the ground. I crawled farther center towards the bus. I felt giddy by being high off the ground but not enclosed by anything. John tossed me his ukulele case and stepped lithely onto the bus. He took the uke out from its case and began strumming before the bus had even moved. It started chugging and I shrieked nervously, grasping John's hand for support. He chuckled at me.

The bus took off down the street and I screamed as the momentum pushed me flat onto my back. The wind was knocked out of me and we both started laughing. My knuckles turned white from grabbing the side of the bus. I turned to see John's face and had never felt so happy in my life. John started singing along with his ukulele chords.

"Well, that'll be the day, when you say goodbye

Yes, that'll be the day, when you make me cry

You say you're gonna leave, you know it's a lie

'Cause that'll be the day when I die."

I started singing along with him in the second verse, practically screaming out the lyrics. He basically let me take it as a solo.

"Well, you give me all your lovin' and your turtle dovin'

All your hugs and kisses and your money too

Well, you know you love me baby, until you tell me, maybe

That someday, well I'll be through."

By the end of the song, you could not even understand what we were singing, if we were singing anything besides what fit inside the chords. The bus lurched to a stop in downtown Liverpool, which is quite unspectacular.

"Let's go again!" I said. John looked concerned and helped me off the bus. My knees wobbled and I was a little dizzy. I was so happy!

"Here we are." John looked at a loss of what to do now that we were here. "What-?"

"Let's go eat! I could eat a cow!" I followed my senses to a hamburger joint when I was hit by a severe cramp. I keeled over in the middle of the parking lot, trying to catch my breath. A bout of anger came over me and many ambivalent emotions. I got out my Aspirin from my pocket book (now I'm talking like an old person) and walked into the joint. John asked for seats at the high table tops and he ordered an iced tea for me. I looked at him questioningly.

"You know Aspirin is shit without caffeine, right?"

"Uh … yeah, of course. I … I was … just wondering … if you would order me iced tea or coffee. You chose right." When my tea came, I popped the Aspirin into my mouth, praying that I would not have gastrointestinal bleeding.

"What's hurtin' ya?" John asked.

"Headache from the heat," I rolled off easily, picking up a menu. My hopes that my period would be late because of the time traveling were to no avail.

I held up my menu to scan over the dinners even though I was already getting a medium rare hamburger (not everyone can be Paul McCartney, especially when they are anemic). As John looked over his menu, it became an advantageous opportunity to stare at him. The noise around us settled into a static as it finally sunk in: I was actually sitting across from John Winston Lennon in 1957. All of the Beatles were living, breathing people who were young cretins full of musical inspiration and hormones.

It seemed iced tea was not the only thing we ordered because Val, Carmen, and Shirley joined us at the table. Did they stalk John or something?

The Three Amigos pulled chairs over and settled in next to us. Val proceeded to spill water all over John's lap, to which he swore at her as he rushed to get some paper towels from the bathroom.

"He must really want you," said Shirley.

"He never takes girls out!" Carmen exclaimed. "Not like this, anyway."

"It's not a date," I said.

Val spun around John's straw in his cup of water and took a sip from it. She took a few packets of artificial sugar and poured them inside, stirring it around. "I'd be careful, Lia. I'm serious. John's about to be a university boy in a few months. If you're not interested in him that way, you need to make that _very_ clear. Because John's the type of bloke who can get confused and hurt and then turns on you like that." She snapped her fingers melodramatically.

Speak of the devil, John returned from the bathroom with a malicious expression on his face. He took a sip of water and scrunched his face.

"There's a party at Ernie's mate's tonight," Val told us. "How about you blow this joint and come with us? It goes all night and there's gonna be some action, if you know what I mean." She waggled her eyebrows.

"Sorry, but I can't," I said while ordering my hamburger. "I have to get home to Adelaide."

John rolled his eyes. "You're passin' up a good time!"

"Leave her be," said Shirley. "There are other times. But you have to promise to come to the end-of-summer party, Cecilia! It's so much fun."

"Of course."

"We've gotta get going. We can't miss the keg breaking out." The girls all stood up. "Comin', Lennon?"

Without any hesitation, John stood up. "You alright gettin' home, Lia?"

"Yeah, sure," I said, hoping not to get raped.

They said goodbye to me, Val and John sticking their hands into the back pockets of each other's jeans. I prayed that I was not forfeiting an opportunity to be included in this group of friends once school started. However, I assumed Val was holding true to her promise. The end-of-summer party would be perfect for me to make my debut to the sluts and Gigolos of Liverpool.

Although I did want to make it home to Adelaide soon, that was not the real reason why I did not want to go. Val had taken it upon herself to intrude on John and I having dinner, so I did not feel like fighting or giving any satisfaction to her by coming. She was controlling, which was a type of persona to be left in 2016.

I ate my burger alone and it was good. Since downtown Liverpool was not completely deserted yet, I got acquainted with the shops and people there. It was a humid summer night and perfect for sitting on a bench to watch vintage people go about their lives. Everyone was happy and alive and awake and it was nothing like 2016. When I got back on the bus, I held onto a pole and watched the town whiz by. Something caught my eye and had fallen out of a young boy's pocket. It was a disassembled guitar tuner.

"Excuse me," I said as he was getting off, "you dropped this."

The boy turned around and my chest gave a burst of agita.

"Thanks," George Harrison said, taking it from my hand. "I'd be needing it. I'm making a guitar from scratch." He blushed, assuming I would not be interested.

"You must be dedicated. Good luck," I said, knowing he would fail in his endeavor.

"You're American! What are you doing in this dump?"

"Off my bus or I'll skin you alive!"

"Maybe I'll see you sometime!" I said, waving. George suddenly seemed terrified of me and took off at a slow run.

When I got home, I found Adelaide in the same place as I had left her: in bed. I got underneath the covers next to her and told her about my day. She slowly began to smile and started laughing when I informed her how George Harrison had run away from me.

"I'm looking forward to meeting him," Adelaide said.

"He's so smol," I noted.

"Cecilia, can I tell you something?"

"Anything."

"It all starts with the Beatles. My parents became a couple because they met at a tribute concert. You know, those guys with the terrible wigs and fake accents. They had a great love for music and art from the sixties. But the terrible part about obsessions is that there's always someone who can't let go. My father was that person.

"There were times when I was a kid that he would just leave on 'work trips.' My mom was always upset during these periods. I thought they were going to get a divorce. When I was around eight he left and never came back. I couldn't even remember him besides Beatles songs he would sing to me. The only time I saw him was in my dreams.

"My mom signed me up for the art camp because she's always loved the museum. She's known Ray for years and they go back to when my dad was alive. She was just getting back to bringing me there. I think she must've been mad at Ray but then realized that he never _made_ my dad do anything. She loved being back at the museum and now I realize it was because she felt a connection to my dad again. She started remembering.

"It might seem weird that I never knew till now, but my dad came here and was trying to save John for many years. The homeless man was trying to tell me but he was too deranged to explain. I think this past makes the people in the present forget. It was like a veil was put over me and I could never think or imagine my own dad. But whenever you're immersed in the past or _in_ the past, I think you start to remember the people who came.

"My dad never came back, Lia. Ray came back…. I don't know what's happened to him. When I saw the homeless man and how he killed himself, it made me think of how unpredictable this all is. Where is my dad? Could we not remember him because he doesn't exist anymore? He's stuck between these universes.

"I don't know how the man knew my dad. Maybe he just saw him come into the Church every time he came to 1957. Either way, killing himself while we're here could mean he wouldn't have killed himself in another 1957. It's just all so screwed up. My dad is alive, but not here, not with me…. Who even am I? Who is anyone anymore with this time traveling?"

"What … what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that we have to figure out what this is all about before we make a mistake."

I twirled my hair. "But—what about saving Julia?"

"We have a year to figure out how to save Julia. If both my dad and Ray went back several times, something must've happened that was bad. We need to learn from what they did and go forward. But first we have to know just _what_ they did."

"Wow. You've been here plotting the future while I've been dancing to Tutti Frutti."

"I'm not going to sit around anymore. While you're at work, I'm going to search for any reference to 2016 that 1957 Liverpool has. My dad would always leave me messages through Beatles lyrics. How would this be any different?"

"How could he leave you a message when everything starts fresh?" I asked Adelaide.

"It doesn't have to be a message like that. It can be through people. Like the homeless man."

I waited for her to read the article that I had gotten this morning. "Happiness is a warm gun," I said. "Now let's start with finding where he got it."


	7. Strawberry Fields

_Adelaide's P.O.V._

"It's getting hard to be someone

But it all works out

It doesn't matter much to me."

-John Lennon, "Strawberry Fields Forever"

I was horrible at obeying Cecilia's wishes.

Because she had work again the next day, Cecilia ordered me to keep my friendship with John going until the weekend and then we would start tracking where the homeless man's gun came from and his own identity. However, another day at home accomplishing nothing was not what I had in mind. A little searching wouldn't hurt anyone. So when Cecilia left for work, I got out my notes and piled them in the middle of the living room floor, looking for clues from Ray. He left marks and spaces in his notes whenever he went back to 2016 or came into 1957. There were little blurbs about the Church: _St. Peter's quiet place, Can travel back easily from here_ and some about the homeless man: _Crazy man, Seems to recognize me, Made references to others who have come with me, How would he know?_ And then, one final note: _#9_.

"What the—"

The door suddenly swung open and Valerie and John came rushing in from the pouring rain. I looked at the notes and shoved them into the notebook and into Ray's bag. Neither of them noticed me panicking but this did not ease my anxiety.

"Hi, Lia's cousin," said Valerie, snooping around the house.

"It's Adelaide. How can I help you on this fine day?"

John snickered. "Lia home?"

"What do you think? She's working, as usual."

Valerie sat her wet body on the couch and I could almost feel Cecilia screaming all the way from the bank. "What do you do all day?"

"Oh, you know. Draw. Read. Eat. Mostly eat."

"Do you want to be fat by the time school rolls around?" I looked down at my mostly flat chest and dreamed of it. "What, does she not let you out of the house?" John plugged in the keyboard and began rifling through Cecilia's sheet music that was already on the floor and began tossing it into different directions. Forget screaming; Cecilia was now beyond being livid.

"Sure, I go on walks and lay out and suntan when it isn't raining. But if I went downtown or something I could be kidnapped or raped. And by the time she gets home, she's too tired to go anywhere."

"What a thrill," said John.

"Wanna be kidnapped by us for a day? You've got school coming up and need to go shopping." I wondered why Valerie would want a fourteen-year-old to tag along with her all day. "You got money?"

"Yeah, but—"

"She won't miss a few pounds. You make Lia sound like she won't let you use hot water!"

"The only reason she does is because the water bill is included in the rent."

John snickered. "Well, what're ya doing standin' there? Go get the money." I followed orders and arose into the attic where most of our funds were kept. I took out 100 pounds, equating to about 280 American dollars in 1957. When I returned with it, John threw it in the air and Valerie laughed hysterically.

"Do you want to buy the store? Jesus, what is Lia making? Just bring twenty pounds at the most."

It was too easy to forget how far money went in 1957. "Sorry, I get confused with how much the money is worth here sometimes." I rolled my eyes when John took a few pounds for his "music," because I could not really say no to that one. I was thankful and pleasantly surprised they didn't take _more._ After returning the money, we raced outside into the rain. Because I did not own a coat yet, I was drenched almost immediately. But the money was safe within my pocket and Valerie and John seemed to be enjoying themselves. Their clothes stuck to their skin tightly and our neighbor gave them an obscene look.

We waited for the downtown bus underneath the front of a building with an elongated roof. Stepping inside, I watched Liverpool whiz by in a deluge. John and Valerie were yapping, their thick accents carrying more art than words. The city was miserable from any other vantage point but to me it was beautiful and new. The rain gave it sheen instead of a blurred edge.

"Now, Adelaide," Valerie began, "you want your peers not to like ya but fear ya. So your wardrobe must match what you like. You're pretty for your age and are American. Your tastes should be out-there but not somethin' to be made fun of."

"Why do you care? And why is John coming on a shopping spree?"

"Because you're buyin' me lunch," John winked.

We got off downtown and went right to the first store for girls my age. Instead of in America 2016 where I hated most fashion, I picked up most of the options to try on. There was not much to choose from and most of the clothing was prudish but it had capability. Valerie stood at the door while I tried a few items on and waited.

"How's this?" I asked her.

She snorted. "Put it away. Don't you see it does nothing for your curves?" John floated around the store, bored, but stopped to see my outfit. "What curves?" I slammed the door in his face.

There was usually something Valerie said that convinced me that the outfit was unworthy of me or that it did not accent my body type. I trusted her on this issue because she was slight herself but still managed to pull off clothing that looked great and made her body type an asset.

We finally agreed upon a striped shirt and dark Levi jeans, making me look American but not in an extreme sense. We added a few more shirts to the outfit and a lighter pair of jeans before checking out. By this time, John was swearing at us to hurry up. By the time we had finished, there was only three pounds left; in this time, the clothes had been expensive. Valerie must have noticed but seemed smug about the fact she had made me spend so much money in one store and successfully.

"Now ya don't have to go to a thousand other stores and you're all set for school. Of course, you'll have to go again before winter."

John groaned. "Just give me me damn fish and chips."

"Mm, I could really go for that," I agreed. The rain had stopped and let out a slight ray of sunshine and so we walked a few blocks to _The Sea Cove._ People ate right inside at long tables and jukeboxes played nearby, giving it an unrushed feeling that American fish places did not have. Also, these people seemed to enjoy fish all year long and not just during Eastertime.

We all ordered a rather large amount of food, including but not limited to several kinds of fish, a large order of fries (portions in 1957 were rather small), potato and macaroni salad, fried shrimp, calamari, fried onions, cheesecake, and chocolate chip cookies. After the tip, the three pounds was obliterated. Out of the three of us, Valerie ate the most and claimed she still could have eaten more afterwards. My dinner was spoiled but John was fine.

"Why do they sell cheesecake with fried fish?" I asked.

"Tastes great to me," claimed Valerie, her mouth filled with food.

"Do you think you can stop eating so I can bring Cecilia home the rest for dinner?"

"Why don't we just order her somethin'?"

"The money's all gone."

Valerie nodded and asked for a bag to take home the remainder of the food. I was surprised at how easy that was but then was clarified by her next comment. "I'm lucky if I get one course for dinner. Thanks, Adelaide." She genuinely smiled at me but the fish in her teeth spoiled it.

"I'm not poor but shoot me if that wasn't better than Mimi's meatloaf," said John. I cringed at the words "shoot me."

"How does your mom cook?" I asked.

"Me mum cooks good but Mimi insists I eat at her house if anything. So usually if I go over there, I end up having two dinners."

"Poor you," Valerie said.

"You know, you can both stop over at our house at any time. Lia might not be the best cook, but she never fails to have food in the house. Just remember to pay up." I don't think that they realized I was joking. After bidding the employees at _The Sea Cove_ good-day, we stepped outside into the emerging sun. John wiped his hands and checked the time on his vintage watch.

"I'm supposed to be at Ivan's house right now. Catch ya later."

Valerie got out a cigarette and took a deep breath, lighting John up. In 2016, I was able to hold my breath until whoever was around had left the vicinity. In 1957, I would have been long dead by now. People smoked freely everywhere and it was the least pleasant experience of the time. But if it put people in a better mood, it was all right with me.

"Carmen has a pool, so I'll be goin' over there now. Make friends in good places in high school, Adelaide."

"But I don't want to face Lia alone!" I blurted.

They both sighed. "Well, I _s'pose_ it's on the way," John said.

"Maybe she'll come over to Carmen's with me. I need someone to level out the sanity."

What interesting relationships teenage girls had.

When we got home, Cecilia was already there. Instead of being monstrous, her face lit up when she saw me walk in with shopping bags, Val, and John. "I'm glad you got out today," she said. When she saw the food, she got even more excited. "How much money was all of this? And what'd you buy?" John began laughing. "Sorry," she began pointedly, "but I'm not going to end up on the streets someday!" He shut up.

Valerie put a pale hand on Cecilia's shoulder but she did not seem to enjoy the gesture. "It was twenty pounds. If you're angry she took money out, blame it on me. I suggested we go shopping."

"You thought I was going to be furious, didn't you?" Cecilia shook Valerie's hand off. "Is that what you think of me?"

"I wouldn't blame you. I know how important money is. It's … everything."

"I'm more mad about what you all assume of me and say about me than the fact you spent money."

"Hey, can I have some fish?" John asked her.

"Can you blame me?" I asked. "You won't ever let me buy anything!"

" _You_ try keeping a budget for a decent amount of time in a country where money isn't what it is in America! And try doing it when you've lived your whole life in inflation—"

John must have kept pestering Cecilia for fish because she poured the bag's contents right into his face. Potato salad lay in a disgusting goop on his forehead and smeared his hair. "Well, I guess it'll do for greasing," he said.

"Oh John, I'm so sorry," Cecilia said, and I rolled my eyes. She wetted a napkin and patted at his face while I helped scoop up the food that had fallen on the floor.

He smirked at her. "Well, I deserve it, ye know. I should've at least right walked ya home yesterday."

She seemed to act less remorseful after that. "Oh, and Adelaide? The joke's on you about the clothing. You can spend as much money as you want on clothes, if you don't mind getting kicked out of school. Did you forget that you wear a _uniform_ every day?"

At this, Valerie erupted into laughter and gave Cecilia a high-five as if the entire excursion had been a scheme. I kicked the leg of the kitchen chair in frustration and stubbed my toe, hopping to my room. From the other room, the three of them were laughing and joking around with one another. Soon they forgot about me and were discussing swim apparel for Carmen's pool. Neither Valerie nor Cynthia had swimsuits so of course John quipped that they needn't wear anything instead of spending _more_ money.

It was obvious the way that they saw me: a child. What was the secret to being almost an adult? They seemed about the same to me. The only difference was that they swore more and had a more bitter view on life. Why did Ray even insist that I join Cecilia? She was doing fine on her own with her charismatic personality, musical abilities, and everything else. I was not talentless—I could draw, and John liked art, but nothing about me stuck out like her. It just wasn't me. What use could I even have when I would only be a hindrance? Was I a security to Ray to keep Cecilia in line and continue on the legacy of my father? I didn't even know who my father _was._

Perhaps when the Quarrymen evolved into The Beatles and George came into the picture, things would be different. But George had no gravity within the group and was always pushed aside like I was. Would that just be a sick sort of consolation? Besides, the original mission has nothing to do with the psychology of the group. This was an advantage to have while stopping John's shooter, but stopping him was the reason for being chosen in the first place. What could I bring to the table that Cecilia lacked? Ray might have known my father but he didn't know me. What did he see in me?

There was a knock on the door, as if Cecilia was my mother. "Hey, wanna go to Carmen's to swim? We're going to get suits first, if you're up for more shopping…."

"No, I'm fine." Of course, Cecilia's wonderful friend Valerie knew that I would never come.

"I think you should come, but suit yourself. Look, I'm sorry." Maybe this was the difference between ages; she knew that it was her responsibility to suck up her pride and apologize for something that only made me feel awful.

An idea dawned on me. "It's all right. I just don't want to go."

"Okay. Is there anything you want me to bring back for a late dinner or do you have that taken care of?"

"It's fine. Don't spend more money."

She came and sat down on my bed. "You know, we're both right about the money thing and we're both wrong. You should understand that we need to be careful because there's not much you know yet about that. You'll just have to trust me there. And I'll have to trust that you won't spend it all and that it's okay to spend some. Make sense?"

I nodded. "I think a big difference between us is that you're more working class and I'm more modern about it. But you're right, we're living in 1957. But don't work _all_ the time, Lia. We still have the sports records," I whispered.

"You're right. Thanks, Adelaide. We just have to be careful about those. Look at me. Do I look like I know a thing about sports? That should be used rarely and in desperate measures. It could be dangerous."

I nodded again.

"All right. Well, try to keep busy tonight. I used to be home all the time. I want you to have the opportunity to be a teenager."

I smiled. "Will you ever tell me about your other life?"

"Someday," she said, "when I'm ready."

* * *

As soon as everyone left, I rifled through Ray's notes and maps. There were several which were already manufactured and some that he had sketched that had specific places of interests. I traced my finger over the pencil of our house to Strawberry Fields. It was not far at all. I decided to stop by the Church first, however, in order to look for any pieces of evidence that the police might have missed.

St. Peter's was just beginning to fill up with people for their evening Mass. A few people glared at my informal outfit but proceeded to ignore me as I went up near the altar. Studying the place where the homeless man had died gave me chills that traveled from my neck all the way down my spine. Taking a deep breath and trying not to be obvious, I looked around on the floor for markings. The purpose of discovering why the man had killed himself would reveal how he knew about my father in the first place. It might help us understand the world we were living in better. Something told me that we were not just in 1957 but in a separate universe altogether.

"What are you doing?" I looked up from a long garment that a priest was wearing. He peered down at me.

"I'm …" Did contacts exist in 1957? "I dropped my—" I glanced around—"my bookmark for my Bible!"

The priest gave me a brief smile and went into the back of the Church to prepare for Mass. Sighing in relief but feeling a groove in the floor, I stopped. Squinting, I could see something engraved in the floor from a pencil.

 _9_

I stood up suddenly, brushing my knees off. Feeling a bit overheated and nauseated, I walked out of the Church at a high speed.

What did this mean? Had the homeless man left a hint for us or was that his signature connection to the 1957 everyone had been to? The number 9 symbolized something—that much was positive. But in a labyrinth of different symbols for one number and a dozen circumstances was before me.

Wanting to clear my head and immerse myself in nature, I began to follow the map to Strawberry Fields. My father would often come home and discuss Strawberry Fields with me and my mother. He must have visited it when he needed to think, much like John. A personal space in nature gives a person a calmer sense of reality and a clearer head to boot.

For some reason, it was smaller than I expected. A decrepit, metal gate was situated around the fields, giving the mossy green trees inside a sense of surrealism. Turning the latch to get inside, I felt like I was falling down the rabbit hole like Alice. It was ironic that this was not the time capsule into which we had stepped.

A dirt pathway led into the fields and stretched out, appearing abandoned. I looked around through the trees and tried to see into the children's orphanage. What had I been expecting; a personal visit from my father? A note or a sign, or at least an acute sensation that he had been here? Just like when The Beatles promised each other they would let each other know if there was something after life and John did not leave a sign for Paul, my father had not left anything for me.

But had my father died? What had happened to him? Why had Ray gone back if my father hadn't even returned? I wiped tears of frustration out of my eyes, distraught at the situation. If someone is in a universe which starts over, what could possibly happen to them?

I was numbed from thinking about my father for years since he disappeared. It was almost as if it was less intentional than the way Cecilia blocked everything out as if she _wanted_ to forget it. No, some force had made it so because in a way, my father ceased to exist. But everything we had learned in eighth-grade science—well, the laws of physics did not allow it.

A hand settled on my shoulder and my body shuddered.

"John Lennon, I'm going to maul you alive!" I screamed. I thought he had been joking and trying to scare me, but when he jumped back in surprise, I blushed.

"You're the one trespassing, bird." He crossed his arms.

I held my arm and scratched the back of my neck. "I'm not, actually."

"Oh, and what're doin' 'ere for, then?"

"My father … used to visit this place—when he was in college!"

John sat down on the cool grass and I joined him. "You miss 'im then, I take it? I can see you've been cryin'." I flinched in surprise when he put his thumb on my face and wiped away the remnants of my tears. "You're awful young to be in a far-off country. It must be hard on both of ye."

"It's harder on me."

"Because you're younger?"

I shook my head. "It's because I actually miss it. I miss America. Not really for the wonderful economy but for its hominess. I'm sorry John, but I just don't feel that in Liverpool. I had a great group of friends and we all had so much in common, just like you and your friends in the Quarrymen. And my family was always there for me too. I guess it doesn't sound like much, but there wasn't much I hated in my old life. I just feel like it was a bad trade. Not that you're—I mean studying in Liverpool—isn't worth it! But I'm just lonely."

"You're talkin' like you'll never go back!"

I shrugged.

John nudged me. "Just wait until school starts. You'll make plenty of friends your own age. Wait and see then, Adelaide."

"I hope so. Why are you here anyway, John? I thought you were going to your friend's place," I said.

John reddened. "Well, ye'see, I say that to people when I come 'ere. Keeps 'em on their toes!"

"You shouldn't be embarrassed to be here. Hey, why do you come anyway?"

"To think. My mates aren't the brightest, if ya haven't noticed. Most of the time I pretend along with 'em, but sometimes I've gotta have a brain or two."

"Well yeah," I replied. "Just because you do what you want doesn't mean you're stupid. No offense to them, but that's kind of true."

"I also think about me mum and dad. What could'a been if either of them had stayed and fought it out. Never mind that, though. Didn't _you_ tell Lia you were stayin' at home? I'm gonna rat ye out to her!"

"You are _not!_ "

"Then tell me why she has a stick up her arse all the time!"

I sighed. "I _wish_ I knew."

"Well, why don't you find out then?"

"I'm trying to get it out of her. She hasn't even been homesick yet."

John shuffled his feet. "D'you think it has anything to do with what she told me the night ya both came to the Cavern Club?"

I nodded. "But still. That can't be the only reason why she's the way she is."

"So even you admit it. Her own family. I'm tellin' on you!"

I rolled my eyes but was a little distressed. "Hey John," I noted, quickly changing the subject, "when do you have another gig?"

John sat up suddenly, brushing leaves off of his jeans. "Shite. Right now, actually. Just a little Bar Mitzvah."

"That's sort of an odd … thing for you."

"That's why I haven't told anyone!"

"Looks like we're even, then."

"Say, do ya have any money for me to catch the bus? I have to be there in five minutes."

I shook my head. "No, Lia performed witchcraft over the safe so I couldn't get into it."

"No wonder why she loves _Macbeth_!" John hollered, getting on his strangely-shaped bike and pedaling away. I tried to tell him that I was joking but he did not seem to catch it as he was already halfway down the street.

I laughed to myself, feeling peaceful after John's visit. I looked up at the swaying trees and forgot my momentary sadness. This was Strawberry Fields, the famous place where people would gather decades from now as a memorial to The Beatles, John, and peace itself. It was where people had written "Imagine" on the stones; where they brought the life and beauty out of a terrible, violent death. Why should I need a sign when they were written throughout time and already everywhere? Who wanted a dead sign from a father beyond the veil, anyway? John was alive and thriving.

This had been the sign. There were no coincidences in this ethereal world of 1957. Everything that happened had a direct purpose and correlation. The signs were all there. Now we just needed to understand _why._

I thought of the lyrics of "Strawberry Fields." John was misunderstood throughout his lifetime, but perhaps he was never the one who was insane. He must have discovered at some point that this "reality" was easily unraveled. Then why was what we were doing so significant to the universe, if reality was not? Maybe it was more significant to the essence of the universe and not our own personal reality-fantasy.

We just had to face it: we had no inkling of what the universe really contained. We only used a fraction of our brain capacity. Scientists had invented modern physics just in the last 150 years and humans have barely discovered the oceans, let alone outer-space.

This was why so many people felt they had no place in the world—in trying to discover everything around us, we forgot about what lies inside. People have been forced to conform and if they do not and are still able to be somewhat happy, they remain in a Strawberry Fields labeled "insane." John Lennon said that it worked out, but how could he know that? How could he even say it, unless he knew something we didn't? Of course, he was not all-knowing. However, it could be argued that he knew _something._ But it seemed in this world, he didn't know that something yet.

I had a lot to tell Cecilia when she got home.

* * *

 **A/N:** Because I haven't gotten any response the last two chapters, this is the last chapter I am posting on fanfiction for now. You can find the first 2 chapters on Wattpad. Unless I get a huge response (and I don't expect to) for this chapter, I won't be rushing to update or get another one done. Thanks for all who have read and reviewed so far! _I'm not discontinuing this story._ It's doing better on Wattpad, so look there. :)

I hope you all have a good rest of the summer!


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